


Conversations with Dead People

by bluestoplights



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Private Investigator!Emma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-08 11:05:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 53,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5494874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestoplights/pseuds/bluestoplights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma Swan, former cop turned private investigator, doesn’t like getting involved - not with cases and definitely not with people. As a shady enterprise on the unfinished business - or conversations - of the dead begins to have dangerous consequences, she might be challenged on both counts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i died so i could haunt you

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know. Who the hell would trust me with another multichapter after virtually abandoning two of them? (Maybe one day those will get finished. Maybe one day.) The good news is this: this entire fic is already written. Whole thing, I swear. It has been a really interesting week, to say the least. I’m staggering posting chapters so A) you guys don’t have to read 45k words in one sitting, B) so I have time to edit and revise and tweak, and C) so more people will see it. I have no shame in admitting option C, it’s a truth universally acknowledged that fanfiction authors live for feedback. I’m probably going to post a new chapter every few days (I have this split into 9 chapters), so !!! it’s exciting for me. It’s also the longest thing I’ve ever written, so, there’s that.
> 
> This idea was sort of a weird one. It kind of crossed my mind after watching Fareed Zakaria’s special about moonshots of the 21st century and this idea of technological progression to the point that - yeah - you can have conversations with the dead. Everyone’s favorite foreign policy analyst Fareed Zakaria interviews this theoretical physicist Dr. Michio Kaku who talks about how, quote, “Perhaps one day we'll have a library of souls. Instead of going to the library to read up on Winston Churchill we'll see a hologram and have a conversation with Winston Churchill with all the memories and all the personality quirks. One day, our descendants may have a conversation with us because we live forever in a library of souls. (...) Well, just realize that today we're just at the beginning of this revolution. We're beginning now to record thoughts. And the very fact that we can talk about this in a scientific way means that we've all of a sudden crossed a watershed.” 
> 
> The possible repercussions of that were kind of mindblowing, for me. And it could be the stupidest idea in the world, but between Killian dying in canon and my own really weird experiences with grief, it sort of struck a cord. (Killian is not dead in this fic, even though I briefly considered it, I am not that much of a masochist.) I guess you could consider this fic sort of science fiction - even though, honestly, I usually am not really one for the genre - but I really try to ground it as much as possible. People aren’t on hoverboards, everyone isn’t on Mars, the world is very much similar even though it’s set a decade in the future where… you can have conversations with the dead. As you can imagine, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. There are still a lot of really current problems, too, from shitty family dynamics and emotional trauma to police corruption. I’m honestly more concerned about doing justice to those things than the actual technological perspective. 
> 
> This is the world’s longest author’s note. I hope this wasn’t too much to scroll past, guys. I really hope you guys enjoy this fic, too.

Being a private detective is really one of the best gigs on the planet.

In a city like Storybrooke, anyway, where what used to be an idyllic small town has transformed in the last decade into one of the most profitable and expanding places in the nation, let alone Maine. Business is booming.

Especially for Emma Swan.

There’s something about cash flow that makes the people in this town willing to do what they ordinarily wouldn’t - like cheat on their husbands and skip bail. This applies to the people that profit off of Storybrooke’s newfound success, anyway. The people that don’t… well.  The exacerbated class differences make the other side of town - where she works, private detectives need cheap real estate - that much more of a hot spot for the less glamorous crimes. Those aren’t as good for business.

Most of her cases are taken over the phone or online because of that. It’s one thing to get their hands dirty hiring her in the first place, it’s another to step foot in her side of town. She doesn’t complain, of course. The less Emma has to interact with people, she’s found, the better. They ask her to catch a cheating husband, she snaps a few pictures, and rent is paid for the month. Some guy skips out on a bail and her electricity bill is taken care of.

Most of the bail jumpers she’s able to take care of using the tried and true online dating method. Emma gets herself matched to her perp, they meet, and she drags him off to the station.

(Tinder really lasted longer than most people thought it would, funnily enough.)

Her work is hands off, discounting that. A lot more hands off than her previous job.

Which is why it comes as such a surprise when a statuesque older blonde woman comes waltzing into her office, the clang of her heels on the wood filling Emma’s much beloved silence.

That, and the fact that Ingrid Swan is one of the last people she wants to see.

“I need your help,” Ingrid says curtly, not wasting any time in cutting to the chase.

“The only type of help I offer is on the sign,” Emma mutters, not looking up from the laptop in front of her, where her latest case has been sent to her, “so unless you need me to sulk in some bushes or catch a bail jumper for you, I don’t think there’s much I can help you w-”

Emma hears a thud and looks up to see a large briefcase deposited on her desk. She raises her eyebrows.

“I need you to do some investigating for me,” Ingrid supplements. “My client, a distraught mother is filing a wrongful death lawsuit against Robert Gold. Her daughter killed herself after a conversation with her dead father. I want you to figure out what’s going on behind the scenes.”

“You would know all about the distraught mothers, _Mom_ ,” Emma mutters sarcastically. “Why don’t you ask the dead girl about what’s happening behind the scenes - isn’t that the point?”

“I highly doubt the accuracy of anything coming from the company that got her killed,” Ingrid stiffens even further, not that her already icy posture made that easy. “You made it plenty clear you didn’t want me in your life.”

“Look how well that worked out,” Emma sighs, drawing a stack of papers from her desk, “seeing as you’re here. Why did you come to me, anyway?”

“I wouldn’t trust anyone else to handle this. Besides, you’re the best in the business around here.”

“Don’t,” Emma warns, voice sharp. “Don’t try that proud mother shit with me, we both know that doesn’t flatter either of us.”

“I’m not trying anything,” Ingrid fires back, but continues all the same. “Look into Gold. Find out what the hell is going on there.”

Emma sighs, drawing the contract from the pile. “Fine. I require a $250 down payment.”

“The sign says $200.”

“Friends and family bonus,” Emma replies sardonically. “It’s not like you’re hurting for money. What CEO is suing his employee for breathing his air this time?”

“All of them,” Ingrid quips, signing the contract and taking out her checkbook with a sigh. “Can I trust you to do this for me?”

“We don’t need to trust each other for this,” Emma intones duly. “I just need to get paid.”

Ingrid sighs, looking at her with something like regret. “So that’s how it is.”

“I’ll text you updates,” Emma says by way of answering, “As I do with all of my clients. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

  


-/-

 

Robert Gold’s success story is the traditional sort. Isaac Newton discovered gravity when an apple hit him. Dennis Gabor invented holography at an electric company. Steve Jobs built a computer in his basement. And Robert Gold, in mourning of his dearly departed wife, made the city of Storybrooke rich as fuck by making it possible to have conversations with dead people.

And not in the psychic medium way, either. That would almost be respectable in comparison.

It’s only a matter of time before his business expands beyond just the reaches of Storybrooke, but since the company is in its infancy the town gets to reap the benefits of such exclusive opportunities. From the flashy advertisements that have overtaken this city’s every breath, she knows the gist of how it works. Using recovered brain matter of the corpses, Gold and his team of crazy fucking scientists make a fortune out of selling conversations with the dearly departed. Commercials include a mother tearfully explaining how she gets to talk to her son every Sunday over breakfast for the first time since he got hit by a car. A little girl whose mother died giving birth to her shows her mom her report cards.

The last one disturbs her the most, and it’s probably why she’s never been anxious to buy into that bullshit.

(Not to say she hasn’t considered it, especially after -

No, she has never considered it.)

Her philosophy when it comes to it is more along the lines of: cheap bastardizations of people you love aren’t honoring them, they’re exploiting them. But at the end of the day, there’s nothing shocking about it. Rich men making money off of vulnerable people.

What else is new?  


-/-

  


She figures she should start off with talking to the mother of the girl, working her way up from there. Interviews - especially with emotional people - aren’t her forte, but at the very least Emma is good at telling when people are lying. And she better make damn sure there’s no better explanation before she starts nosing around the business of someone as powerful as Gold.

Ashley Boyd, the grieving mother, looks every bit as drained as one would expect when she opens the door.

“Emma Swan,” she introduces herself. “I’m a private investigator working for Ingrid Swan, who I’m told is your attorney.”

Ashley nods in recognition. “Yes, she is. Please, come in.”

Emma gives her a half-hearted smile, trying to be careful not to track dirt on the linoleum as she walks in. The place is an idyllic picture of middle class living. The house is two stories high, there’s a well-loved welcome mat, and she even passed a picket fence on her way onto the property.

You’d never guess a girl hung herself upstairs in it.

She buries the thought.

“So, Emma Swan, right?” Ashley begins carefully. “Any relation to Ingrid?”

“Nope,” Emma answers quickly. “Just a strange coincidence, it’s a common last name.”

“Huh,” she notes, a little awkwardly.

“I…” Emma trails off, not knowing where to begin when it comes to broaching the topic of a daughter’s suicide with her mother. “Um, sorry. Can you tell me everything you know about...what happened with Sydney?”

Ashley nods, already tearing up a little bit.

Emma makes a mental note to charge Ingrid extra for this shit. Again, she isn’t so great with emotional people.

“It started after my husband passed away. It was a few months ago and Thomas and Sydney were...they were so close. She was only 15 when he passed away after his fight with cancer, it all happened so quickly. One of the therapists we went to after...she recommended we try out Gold Inc. Said that Sydney could get some closure and talk to him for one last time.”

“But it wasn’t enough,” Emma finishes, grimly.

“How could it be?” Ashley asks, tearfully. “I mean, this was her father. You could tell it wasn’t really him, though, at least I could I loved him so much that I just...it was a cheap mimicry. They configured it after a few interviews with us about what he was like, said it was just a therapeutic measure - which I doubt because the only memories he seemed to remember were the ones he talked about.”

“So the brain matter stuff, that’s all bulls- made up?”

Ashley shrugs helplessly. “It was so expensive, those sessions. Hundreds of dollars for the first one, and the more you did them the more expensive they got. After Thomas died, finances were hard enough as it was. I work as a nurse at the hospital, but then I could barely pay bills for me and Sydney even without the sessions. But she was so heartbroken. I took out another mortgage on the house, I sold a bunch of my old antiques I inherited from my grandmother, I did everything I could. But past a point, we had to keep the lights on.”

Emma nods along as she takes notes over the conversation. “So the sessions ended.”

“And Sydney couldn’t...she couldn’t deal with it. She wanted to see her father so badly, even if it wasn’t really him. She begged me and begged me but there was nothing I could do. I pleaded with the people at Gold Inc. to help me, help her, but while they were sympathetic...Robert Gold adamantly refused. Said he was running a company, not a charity.”

“Stand up guy,” Emma comments, sarcastically.

“I lost my daughter because of him,” Ashley says, hardening. “His business - if you can call it that - did this to her. She was never able to grieve properly. All it did was get her dependent on these...these visions. They weren’t real. None of it was real.”

“And you want to see him go down,” Emma observes. “Why not go to the police? Why a civil suit?”

Ashley scoffs. “Have you met the sheriff?”

Emma winces. “Unfortunately, yeah. Point taken.”

“I want that company to have no money left to run itself. I don’t want to see this happen to anyone else’s children,” Ashley says, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “Can you do that for me?”

“I…” Emma starts. There’s something in this woman that’s familiar to her, that reminds her of herself. She hates getting involved in cases (usually there’s not much for her to get involved in with P.I. work, but back when she had another job she gave everything she had until there was nothing left of her - which is probably why she is the way she is now), but goddamn it, there’s a small part of her that wants justice for this girl, too. “I’ll do my best, Ms. Boyd.”

Ashley gives her a hug, then. Emma sits there awkwardly for a minute, not sure of what to do. Eventually she pats her back in what she hopes is a reassuring motion. “I’m sorry for what’s happened to your daughter.”

Ashley leans back, looking more determined than tearful. “Don’t be sorry. Just take this bastard down."  


 

-/-

  


Emma can understand family being a powerful motivator, to be fair. Otherwise she wouldn’t be caught dead in an overpriced cafe a block from Gold’s headquarters.

What her cousin wants, her cousin gets. Emma ducks into the booth with her, face red and yanking her scarf and coat off. It’s December and it’s snowing, her least favorite time of the year. She’s always been wimpy when it comes to cold. 

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Elsa says in that earnest voice Emma has become so familiar with, her hands cupping a mug of coffee. “I know things have been rough with…”

“Let’s not talk about it,” Emma interrupts. “I hear Anna is engaged, let’s talk about that.”

“Emma,” Elsa reprimands carefully. “It helps to talk about it, you know?”

“If I wanted to talk to someone about it, I’d see a shrink,” Emma replies, a little too harshly. “Now, tell me about your sister’s wedding or I’m leaving.”

Elsa frowns. “All right, then. His name is Kristoff and they’re ecstatic. Now, how is work?”

Emma narrows her eyes. “Work is work. Are we feeling nosy today?”

“A private investigator calling me nosy,” she teases.

“Forgive me for wanting to discuss my cousin’s wedding instead of catching people boinking in a Motel 8,” Emma replies sarcastically. “Will never happen again.”

“I’m sure work isn’t just that,” Elsa says, not unkindly.

She’s always been a lot more level-headed than Emma. That’s probably why they get along so well - by comparison. Elsa doesn’t often get bothered by Emma’s rocky exterior.

“You’re right. It’s not. Your sociopathic aunt hired me to get dirt on the most powerful man in town. Now, what’s for brunch?”

Elsa blinks. “You want to repeat that?”

“Not particularly,” Emma says, candidly. “Do I want an omelet or a grilled cheese? Which one are we closest to - breakfast or lunch?”

“Both, it’s brunch,” Elsa replies, distractedly. “But Ingrid hired you to go after Robert Gold? Why?”

“Is Kristoff at least better than that Hands guy?”

“Hans, and, yes, he’s much better. I’m still giving him the third degree, though. You didn’t answer my question.”

Emma sighs in exasperation. “Wrongful death suit against Gold. Girl killed herself because Mom couldn’t pay to talk to Dad anymore.”

“Oh my God,” Elsa’s expression turns outraged. “That’s horrible. Poor thing. How is the mother handling it?”

“I’m pretty sure she wants to put Gold’s dick in a woodchipper, about now.” Emma shrugs, opening the menu flippantly. “Not that I can really blame her.”

“I’ve always thought that the concept of his company was disturbing, to say the least,” Elsa adds. “Paying to talk to the dead? How can you really talk to the dead, anyway?”

“You can’t,” Emma finishes. “The dead are dead and you can’t bring them back.”

Elsa seems to think about that for a moment before replying. “So, you never thought about it, after what happened wi-”

“Elsa,” Emma warns. “I love you, but I swear if you say what I think you’re trying to say, I will order everything in this entire pretentious goddamn cafe and have you foot the bill.”

Elsa puts her hands up in surrender. “Point taken. Do you want to hear a weird story about Kristoff’s family?”

“Please,” Emma answers.

 

-/-

  


It’s back to work, after that. Emma has never really looked into Gold’s company beyond a casual, cursory glance. She had no reason to. Now she’s pouring over every single document she can get her hands on that so much as mentions it in passing.

Articles include the likes of _“GOLD STRIKES GOLD IN STORYBROOKE”_.

She rolls her eyes at the lack of creativity. That one was courtesy of the Storybrooke Mirror.

Figures.

After the 20th piece repeating the same old line about Gold being a creative genius who is saving the city with just how goddamn smart he is, Emma starts to get a little sick of the research. That leaves her with one main option, which isn’t much better, but it looks like it’s going be be necessary.

She picks up the phone with a heavy sigh.

“Hi!” Emma puts on her best over-effusive voice over the phone. “I’m Elizabeth Nolan and I’m doing this project for my biology class at the University of New England. Is there any way I could get...I don’t know...a tour of the headquarters over at Gold Enterprises?”

And that’s all she really needs.

  


-/-

  


“Hello,” a man, who looks a little younger than her, greets her at the front desk. “Welcome to Gold Incorporated. How can I help you?”

“Hi,” Emma says, trying to sound as timid as possible. “I think we spoke on the phone. I’m Elizabeth Nolan? We spoke about a tour?”

“Elizabeth!” the man exclaims, as if they’re long separated friends. He’s so friendly, it’s no wonder they keep him at the front. “Yes, I believe we did. I’m Merlin, I think I’m your guide here for the day.”

“Awesome!” Emma replies, beaming. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

The tour is a colossal waste of time, as it turns out. Sure, everything is shiny and new and the technology looks like it costs a fortune, but this isn’t any new information. It’s not until Emma and Merlin enter a hallway that - despite how shiny and titanium and clean it is - reminds Emma of “The Shining” that things start to get remotely interesting.

“So, are these like, the rooms where people can...y’know...talk to people? Like in the commercials?” Emma asks, making sure to sound as energetic as possible. Maybe she’s overdoing to the cluelessness, but it’s worked the best in the past to make people feel secure about divulging too much information.

Emma has this down to a science, at this point.

“We call them portals,” Merlin supplies, gesturing to the doors. “To the other side, if you will. A comfortable experience for our customers and the people they wish to speak with.”

“The holograms,” Emma corrects, a little sharper than she should be given that she’s supposed to be undercover as some ditzy sorority girl. “The holograms they want to talk to.”

Merlin stiffens, looking a little uncomfortable. “We don’t like calling them that, Ms. Nolan.”

There’s an awkward silence between the two of them, one she’s not sure how to break. She almost considers making a break for it right then and there until a man in a lab coat walks by.

“Dr. Whale!” Merlin exclaims, gesturing to the man in question. Emma narrows her eyes at his stark, dyed blonde hair. What hairdresser armed with bleach wronged him? “Meet Elizabeth Nolan. She’s doing a project on our latest developments here at Gold Incorporated.”

“That’s great,” Whale replies, flatly. “I need to get going.”

And just like that, he vanishes from sight just as quickly as he appeared.

Merlin frowns. “Well, our researchers are very busy. And they’re hired for their brains in science, not their communication skills. Anyway, I’ll show you our labs next!”

Emma’s eyes fall on the doors that lead to the simulations with a frown.

“Sorry,” Merlin apologizes. “I’d show you those rooms, but it’s against our policy. Buying first, and all.”

She smiles apologetically. “Sorry! I’d love to see the labs.”

The labs are fucking useless to her. Emma isn’t a science person, for one. Even if she was, she doesn’t know how much she’d be able to interpret from giant machines and computer screens with complicated lines of coding. She just smiles and nods at everything Merlin says, which seems to just be piling effusive praise onto the facility rather than anything of real substance.

As cheerful as he appears to be, she can tell it’s killing him. Emma just isn’t sure if it’s over a moral dilemma or typical exhaustion with his job. She can tell if a person is lying, but she can’t tell their reasoning behind it.

The tour ends, after that. He leads her to the lobby, reiterating again what a pleasure it is to serve the community in such an enormous capacity.

The only thing that’s being served in enormous capacity is Gold’s wallet, but Emma swallows that reply. She’s already said too much.

“Thank you so much for spending the time to explain all this for me! Our next big exam is over holography, and my professor recommended that we check this place out to get a better idea of it,” Emma says, complete with a bright grin.

“Anytime,” Merlin replies kindly.

“I hate to ask for directions yet again, but do you know where the restroom is?”

“Down the hall and turn left. Should be right there.”

Emma thanks him, then turns to enter that hallway. She turns right, determined to get back to the long, creepy hallway full of rooms of dead people.

Maybe not literally corpses, but dead people nonetheless.

Emma stops by a door that looks like it’s relatively secluded from the others, thanks to a protruding wall that casts a shadow over it and ridiculously dim lighting. She curses almost immediately. Of course, it’s locked. And it’s not just locked in the way that she can use a bobby pin and get it open. There’s a scanner on it, likely for employee badges. Emma was just too distracted by potentially blowing her cover to notice it.

Not like she likely would’ve been able to figure out much once she was inside, but there’s still something sketchy about Merlin not even being able to show her the inside of the room.

Footsteps sound not far behind her.

Emma nearly jumps, certain she’s been caught.

"You'll never get them back," the man mutters darkly. "Whatever they're telling you, whoever you've lost, you won't get them back."

Guy sounds vaguely British, maybe Irish. She’s never been good with accents. He’s about 20 feet away from her, is all Emma can really judge based off of his voice.

Emma frowns. "Speaking from experience?"

“Something like that.”

Emma squints, trying to make out the man’s features. All she can see is the outline of his face and body, thanks to the dimly lit hallway. He’s 6 feet, maybe, and his hair seems disheveled. Definitely not Gold, he’s too tall for that and his voice is too different. There’s something else about him that strikes her as familiar, though, and she could swear…

"Wait, who the hell are you?"

"No one of pivotal importance, love," he dismisses her, making a move to walk past her.

Emma is undeterred and she lifts a hand up to his chest to block his movement. Guy loves the unbuttoned v-necks, for sure, and doesn’t seem to shave his chest. She can still feel even if she can hardly see. "Do you work here? Are you a customer? Well, former customer judging by the-"

He groans. "With all due respect, mind your own damn business - aye? Unless you'd like me to ask why you're here."

"Isn't it obvious? To see my dead loved ones, just like you reprimanded me for."

He stares at her for a minute and, in a subtle movement, shakes his head. “Mm. That’s not quite the truth.”

“Then inform me what is - oh great, sage, strange man,” Emma replies dryly.

He laughs, but doesn’t respond.

The stranger leaves a moment later and she watches him go, brow furrowed in confusion. The man leaves her with more questions than answers, and it’s clear tall, dark, and mysterious wouldn’t be much of a help for her even if she did chase him.

_Reason #99 that this place is fucked up._

  



	2. the most wonderful time of the year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I told you I’d update quick. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and have an amazing Christmas!

Emma is walking down to her car - she parked a good mile away from Gold Inc., they charge an arm and a leg for parking like the greedy pricks they are - when she spots a familiar head of short, blonde hair.

She sighs, heavily. He's walking right in her direction, but maybe if she ducks around that building she could get away before he sees her-

The moment of pause she takes to decide what to do next is enough.

"Emma," he says shortly as he stops right in front of her.

Her reply is just as tense. "David."

"Long time no see."

She's already walking away. "Yup."

"Emma - wait," he calls after he and she can't bottle the groan. "Can we talk?"

"Can we? Yes?" Emma replies. "Should we? Probably not."

"We should," David answers tersely. "Forgive me if I want to hear from my sister and make sure she's okay."

"My door is always open," Emma says, noncommittally. "You can always visit."

"We did," he retorts. "Then you threatened a restraining order against me and Mary Margaret."

"Well, that's what happens when you don't learn when to leave me the hell alone," Emma says defensively, crossing her arms in front of her.

"Ever since Graham died, you've been like this," David points out. "Shutting everyone out. Quitting your job. Acting like you don't give a damn about anyone or anything."

"It's not acting if it's true," Emma grumbles. "I shut out people who suffocate me and I quit my job because it sucked."

"You loved being a cop, Emma."

"I'm my own boss, now. It's much more freeing, you should try it sometime. At first it was just bail bonds, but broadening it to priva-"

"We're always there if you need us, Emma," David points out, exasperated. "I'm making dinner Thursday night. Elsa and Anna are coming, I think Anna is bringing her new fiance to boot. You should come."

It's against her best judgement to go.

"I'll come," she groans.

-/-

Mary Margaret and David's apartment is just how she remembers it, just with Christmas decorations. They're both annoyingly festive when it comes to this shit - Thanksgiving ended a few weeks ago, and she already spent that holiday holed inside her office and didn't go to her apartment at all that day to avoid Mary Margaret and David dragging her to dinner then - so it's not exactly a surprise. They've even outdone themselves from last year, if the twinkling lights just on their goddamn door are any indication.

Emma knocks.

Mary Margaret answers with a surprised smile.

"Your door is probably a fire hazard," Emma mutters, gesturing to the lights on the green wood as she walks into the apartment.

"It's good to see you too, Emma," Mary Margaret replies, not even sounding the slightest bit irritated.

She's always been good at that, not getting bothered by Emma's bravado.

"Emma!" David exclaims, walking into the living room with a similar shocked smile. "I'm really glad you could make it."

"After Thanksgiving, I was starting to fear the consequences," Emma replies, shrugging off her jacket. "Where should I put this?"

"Your jacket?" David asks, gesturing to the red leather. "I'll just put it in the coat closet, don't wor-"

Emma rolls her eyes and opens the aforementioned closet to hang her jacket up. "I may have avoided you guys like the plague, but I still know where the coat closet is."

"Right," David replies, a little tensely. "Well, Anna and Elsa should be here any-"

The doorbell rings, as if he's summoned them.

"I'll get that," Mary Margaret says quickly.

Elsa and Anna, sure enough, appear on the other side of the door.

Anna's eyes nearly bulge out of her head when she sees Emma and she's suddenly met with Anna practically attacking her with a hug.

"Emma! I haven't seen you in forever!" Anna exclaims, her grip on Emma tight enough to be uncomfortable for her ribs. She pats her back, unsure of what else to do. "I missed you so much! David didn't tell me you were coming!"

"To be honest, I didn't know if she'd come or not," David says with a small smile.

Emma shrugs, gently extracting herself from Anna's embrace. "I didn't know if I wanted to come or not, to be honest."

"Well, I'm glad you did," Elsa says warmly, moving to meet Emma with her own hug.

Emma gives her an exaggerated sigh. "For now, you are."

-/-

The actual dinner is less tense, believe it or not. Mary Margaret and David make a five course meal. Her brother, unlike her, can cook things besides microwavable meals - it's one of her more superficial flaws. Anna is chatty enough to make things less awkward, Mary Margaret is warm enough to make her feel a little bit less uncomfortable in her own skin, and both David and Elsa act interested without being suffocating.

It could be going a lot worse.

"So, Anna," Emma starts, doing her best to make conversation. It's less uncomfortable for everyone, that way. "what brings you back in town? I hear Portland has been treating you pretty well."

"We're back in my hometown for the holidays," Anna says, beaming. "I came here first, I've been staying at Elsa's. Kristoff should be coming up here soon, too, once he's able to get off work. Winter is kind of a busy season for him. I can't wait for you guys to meet him!"

"Speaking of holidays," Mary Margaret prompts with a smile, looking at Emma pointedly. "You shouldn't be alone on yours, Emma. We're not reliving Thanksgiving. You're coming to Christmas."

Emma opens her mouth to protest, but Mary Margaret doesn't let her.

"We already bought your gift. You're coming. Christmas is about being around the people that you love and we love you, Emma. Get used to it."

Emma sighs, the fight already out of her at her words. Mary Margaret has always been one for trying to make Emma feel included, even if Emma puts most people at a distance the length of a million football fields. "And if I hole myself up somewhere to avoid it?"

"Then we'll drag you ourselves," Mary Margaret finishes.

David nods, "I will help her."

Anna just looks excited at the prospect. "Please, Emma? I really miss you. And you'll get to meet Kristoff! And potentially scare him out of his mind, I'm beginning to wonder why I-"

Elsa interrupts her sister before she goes on yet another tangent. "You should come, Emma. Mary Margaret is right, the holidays are about family."

Emma groans. "What, was the plan from the get go to gang up on me?"

"No, but why be mad about something if it works?" Mary Margaret quips.

"You win," she gestures to the table. "I'll come."

"All I wanted," Mary Margaret replies with a broad smile. "Now, Elsa, how is work? Social work really is such a good fit for you, I'm just excited…"

-/-

Gold is having Holiday sale, 50% off.

She snorts at the morbidity of it.

There's no time like then to buy one of those stupid fucking simulations, though. And she, whether she likes it or not, should probably try it at some point if she's expecting to get any real information from this place. The simulations don't come cheap, but, thanks to the fact that her caseload gets busier around the holiday season (why do people sleep around at Christmas? Is there no sanctity to anything anymore?) she has some extra spending money.

And yes, she's already spent what she needed to on gifts.

(Though internally Emma is still deciding whether or not it's worth it to go to David's tomorrow. Dinner one night was one thing. Christmas? An entirely different animal.)

So that's how she spends Christmas Eve: at Gold's to waste a shit ton of money on something that is likely going to cause her psychological trauma.

But, damn it, she has to spend money to get money and Ingrid will only pay the rest of the bill if she delivers. Emma has tried every other possible way to figure out what's going on in the inside of the company. Now she has to suck it up and finish the damn job.

(And on psychological trauma? She's not sure it can get much worse. Emma doesn't have much more on the bitterness scale to go to transform into a full on Scrooge.)

The assistants at the lab have her fill out a series of questionnaires, looking a little hurried and haggard thanks to the influx of business that night. Emma is asked questions like: What was their name? Their date of birth? Their favorite color? Your fondest memory of them? She drags out pictures and videos from her phone, too.

It's really fucking transparent, to be frank. Emma isn't sure how anyone can go through this process and still believe the brain matter explanation. But then again, desperate people are subject to believing anything. And if anyone knows that, it's her.

Not that she's desperate.

(Anymore.)

-/-

The first time she sees him (or whatever this is) again, she feels like she's been punched in the gut.

His eyes are the same shade of brown. His hair is just as curly as she remembers it. He's even wearing the worn boots that he always refused to replace.

Hologram or not, it looks way too fucking realistic.

"Graham?" she tries, voice cracking on the word.

"Emma," he exalts with a broad smile. "I missed you."

He tells her that he loves her, tells her that he's sorry he never got to say goodbye to her, asks her what she's doing now and how she's feeling.

Emma can't give him much in way of replies.

Graham moves on to talk about how he's found peace, how he knows he died doing the right thing, and how he hopes she's doing okay without him. He tells her that he never wanted to leave her, expression raw and gestures pleading.

The words are broad and vague and cliche, but in Graham's voice and mannerisms they sound damn near convincing.

She knows this isn't real. That none of this is real. In her head, she knows this. But he seems alive and he seems like he's really here and in front of her and she never, ever wants to leave him again.

Does it really need to be real, anyway?

"I have to go," she says, finally. Her voice is brittle. She doesn't know if he can even hear her.

"Come back and see me?" Graham begs, hands moving next to hers. There's only a sliver of space between his hand and hers, however illusory his body may be.

She can almost feel him.

Emma squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head. "I can't."

"Why not?" he pleads, further still. "Don't you love me? Don't you want to see me?"

"This isn't you."

"This is as close to me as you're going to get. Isn't that enough?"

Graham is looking at her, so earnestly, with his same dark brown eyes and curly hair. It reminds her of the first time they kissed, when he patched up her wounds and just looked at her like he saw right through her.

But something is wrong, underneath that. Superficially, sure, he seems as real as ever - but there's something underneath that that's flat. His eyes are expressive, sure, in the way, that the romantic leads on TV are. There's no depth. It's two-dimensional. He's two-dimensional.

It's not Graham, not really.

It's an ingenious business plan, is what it fucking is, to manipulate your customers using their strongest desires and their most painful grievances to ensure you'll get a constant stream of revenue. Little girl with her report card and single dad come back to mom over and over again, or else face mom's disappointment and traumatize the both of them for life. A mother doesn't have to face the fact that she'll outlive her kid if she keeps on swiping the credit card. An orphan who never mattered and didn't think she ever would doesn't have to let go the one man who ever really loved her.

After all, how much would you pay to keep the people you love most alive?

Gold gambled on the love of other people to keep his business alive and won. Rolling with loaded dice is cheap, but if you lack things like basic human decency - it's a no brainer.

"No," she murmurs, and she knows the words won't matter to him. Not this him. But they'll matter to her, and that's enough. "It's not enough."

Emma ends the simulation with a press of a button, blinking back the tears in spite of herself.

Graham is gone.

She wishes she never would have brought him back.

-/-

She closes the door to the room and slumps against it, wiping the tear tracks from under her eyes. Emma doesn't have Graham, is short an exorbitant amount of money, and didn't find out much to help the case.

Emma really could not have made a poorer decision in coming here.

"Don't cry, it's Christmas," a kid advises her from a nearby bench, his legs swinging back and forth. He can't be any older than eleven.

"I'm not...crying," Emma defends, unconvincingly. The fact that the words come out slightly nasally probably isn't helping her case.

"My mom used to say it was okay to cry," he adds. "Did your mom ever tell you that?"

Emma stiffens. A scraped leg, her first boyfriend, finding Graham's body on the fucking scene with her mother on her heels. They were at dinner when they heard and the pavement sliced her knees when she fell on it. Now… "Not anymore, kid."

"Make the most with the family you have," the boy advises sagely. He turns around to leave, after that.

Emma frowns. "Merry Christmas to you too, I guess."

She leaves the facility - glamorized cemetery, really - after wiping the remnants of her tears in the bathroom mirror alongside some sobbing grandmother who can't stop repeating something about 'her baby' over and over again. When Emma gets out of the door and begins her mile long trek to her car, it's snowing.

It looks like it's going to be a white Christmas. Emma wonders, detached, how Bing Crosby's hologram would react to the news.

-/-

Emma winds up at the Blanchard-Nolan's doorstep the next morning, despite her half hearted attempts to shrug the invitations off. She already bought the gifts. It'd be a waste of money not to.

"I see you decided to show up for the holidays," Mary Margaret greets with a warm smile once she opens the door.

"There was nothing good on TV," Emma shrugs.

Mary Margaret only rolls her eyes and leans in to hug her. "Come in,"

She does so, setting the gifts she's brought under the tree in the living room. The place even more festive than the last time Emma was here, if that's even possible. Emma, again, has to consider all the fire hazards that must come into play with this many twinkle lights.

David comes in from the kitchen, wiping his hands off with a towel. When he spots Emma, he quickly beams and moves to embrace her, practically lifting her feet off the ground. Anna and a man next to her who she assumes is the much talked about Kristoff lurk behind him.

"Merry Christmas!" David exclaims into her hair.

"Merry Christmas to you, too," she replies, setting her feet back on the ground and leaning out of his arms.

Anna echoes David's words, a flurry of red hair as she wraps her arms around Emma. "Merry Christmas! I'm so glad you came!"

Emma is a little bit glad, too. Though she would hesitate to admit that. "Merry Christmas, Anna. Is this the fiance?"

"Kristoff," he introduces himself, hand stretched outwards to shake hers. "Anna suggested that I hug you when I first met you, but then she revised it and said that you might kill me if I tried."

"The latter is probably more accurate," Emma replies with a twitch of her lips. She takes Kristoff's hand to shake it. "It's nice to meet you."

"You too," Kristoff replies quickly.

He seems like a nice enough kid.

"You guys really went all out," Emma comments, studying the surroundings.

Mary Margaret shrugs. "Well, it's one of our specialties. This isn't as bad as that one year -"

"With all the paper snowflakes that took you guys hours?" Emma finishes, laughing at the memory.

"I remember we kept finding little pieces of paper around the loft, afterwards," a voice finishes, drifting from the entryway of the front door that's still wide open.

Emma doesn't know why she didn't anticipate Ingrid being there, all things considered. Maybe she thought her mother retreated to a lair in the Alps during the holidays after becoming a psychopath.

Mary Margaret and David look at her apologetically.

"We would've told you we invited her, but-" Mary Margaret starts.

David finishes, "Then you wouldn't have come."

"It's fine," she reassures them.

No, it's not.

"I would have gotten you a gift, but they ran out of pure evil at Target," Emma turns to address Ingrid, a little tensely.

Ingrid laughs, deceptively warm. "I must have wiped their shelves clean of it last time I went there."

"Please," Emma scoffs. "Like you would be caught dead somewhere as plebian as Target."

A terse minute of silence passes.

"It's really nice to meet you all," Kristoff says, a little awkwardly.

Anna elbows him. He winces.

Emma takes a deep breath. "Sorry for the tense introduction to the family, Kristoff."

"Oh?" Kristoff gestures to them, raising his eyebrows. "This? Nothing. You should see the way my family fights, especially around the holidays. I know you and your mom probably love each other under all that teas-"

"Oh no, I literally hate her with every fiber of my being," Emma enunciates carefully, stripping her jacket off. "I just will take a few less shots if that makes you feel a little less uncomfortable."

Ingrid sighs, crossing her arms and joining David in the kitchen without any additional commentary.

"Oh," Kristoff says, a little stiffly. "Well...you should probably be nicer to your mom around the holidays."

"You didn't tell him, huh?" Emma asks, addressing Anna.

"To be fair, I didn't think you guys hated each other that much." Anna winces. "I thought it was more 'I'm mad, but I still love you' instead of 'I can't stand to be breathing your air'."

"I can breathe it while still acknowledging that it's polluted by her complete lack of basic human decency. Point is, Kristoff, my reasons are completely justified." Emma says, directing her attention back towards him. "If Anna wants to tell you background later, that's her business."

"I-" Kristoff begins, stammering a little.

"And if you don't treat her right, I will use you as tinsel next Christmas."

"That's...fair," he says, adjusting his collar a little bit. "Is it hot in here? I think it's a little hot in here. Probably the fireplace...that they don't have. Why would they have a fireplace? The stockings are on the wall, not the fireplace. I'm going to go somewhere not hot. I think I'll go to the kitchen. Can't take the heat, go to the ki- I'm going, now."

After that weird tangent, he's off to join the rest of the family. Which leaves Anna and Emma alone in the living room.

Anna glares at Emma, arms crossed. "Seriously?"

Emma shrugs, unconcerned. "He seems tougher than he looks. He can handle it. Think of it as character building."

"And I thought Elsa was intimidating to him," Anna mutters, moving to sit over by Emma. "At least my task was accomplished so far."

"Task?" Emma repeats quizzically.

"I was the person assigned to stop you and Aunt Ingrid from killing each other," Anna says, by way of explanation. She's talking too fast, which is indicative that she's at least feeling normal despite all the tension. There's only room for concern when Anna starts talking at a normal pace. "So far, I'm considering this a success."

"Yeah, well," Emma says grimly, taking a long swig of eggnog. "The night isn't over yet."

"That's...optimistic," Anna says. She almost sounds like she means it.

Emma chuckles. "Welcome back home for the holidays, Anna. I bet you missed this madness when you were in Portland."

Anna opens her mouth to reply just as a knock sounds on the door.

Emma breathes a sigh of relief. "That must be Elsa."

Anna jumps up at the news, in something like glee.

They open the door and, sure enough, it is.

"Anna! Emma!" Elsa exclaims, leaning to embrace the both of them while carefully balancing the packages in her hands.

"I missed you so much!" Anna exclaims, arms wrapped around both Emma and Elsa.

"Jesus, I feel like you got stronger the last time I saw you." Emma adds, barely able to get the words out with how tight the sisters' grips are.

Elsa leans back. "Thanks, I've been doing a little weight training. And Anna - I missed you so much. Is Kristoff here?"

"Yeah!" Anna exclaims, ushering the both of them in. "Emma just scared the living crap out of him, but he's still here."

At that, Kristoff walks into the room. "Elsa, it's so good to see you again! Your cousin isn't scary."

Emma glares at him, just to see what his response is. Elsa tries (and fails) to cover her laughter. Anna only sighs in exasperation.

He cringes. "Okay, maybe a little bit scary. Like, I respect her scary. Mayb-"

"Relax," Emma reassures him. "I'm fucking with you."

Kristoff exhales deeply. "That is reassuring."

David walks into the room just as Kristoff finishes his sentence. "Elsa! I thought I heard you come in."

Elsa approaches him to give him a hug. "You did! It's so good to see you!"

Mary Margaret comes back in shortly after. Ingrid is at her heels and, at the sight, Elsa visibly tenses up.

Elsa is a little more like her. Less forgiving, more cautious. And as they've discussed, she doesn't trust Ingrid as far as she can throw her. She and Emma share a look.

"Ingrid," Elsa greets, coolly.

Ingrid bristles, a little, at the reply. "I see you and Emma have already spoken about me and you've come to some conclusions."

"Oh, please -" Emma contests, striding forwards.

Elsa's arm holds her back. "No, Ingrid. I made my own conclusions and my own decisions. Just like you did when you decided to take that case."

Ingrid sighs.

A tense silence passes between the group for a minute. Kristoff's eyes are nervously flitting around the room, as if plotting an escape route. Anna is literally biting her nails, ruining the festive red paint. Mary Margaret and David are looking at each other, trying to decide what to do using their weird, almost telepathic, communication skills.

And then there's Emma and Elsa and Ingrid.

The oven dings.

"I'm going to get that." David says, quickly.

"Me too," Mary Margaret adds.

Anna nearly runs towards the kitchen. "You know what, me three."

"I guess we're all just...taking the ham out of the oven together," Kristoff mutters uncomfortably, striding in the direction of the others. "It's a heavy ham. No other reason for us to be doing that."

And then there's three.

"Look," Emma starts off tensely. "We don't get along."

"I wish we did," Ingrid sighs.

"We don't get along," Emma repeats a little louder, leaning against the wall. "But at risk of giving those four a stroke, we should just avoid interacting with each other at all costs."

"I cosign that," Elsa nods.

"Is that really what you want?" Ingrid asks, toeing at a patch of the wood with her heel.

"Yeah," Emma answers shortly. "That is really what I want."

Ingrid pastes a fake smile on her face, one that's become all too familiar. "Then fine, we just won't interact. Now I'm going to help the four of them lift what must be the heaviest ham in the world."

-/-

There's a tense silence as they sit down to eat.

Anna and Kristoff (those two are really birds of a feather) attempt to make conversation as much as possible, aided occasionally by the efforts of David and Mary Margaret, but after a few limited replies their attempts quickly crash and burn.

"Albert Spencer is stepping down as Sheriff," David broaches, carefully.

"Is he?" Emma mutters, grabbing a healthy dollop of mashed potatoes. "His hip finally give out? Or did Satan call him back to his real job back in hell?"

"I'm running for sheriff," David announces, staring directly at Emma. "I think it's time we show Storybrooke what responsible policing really looks like."

Emma has to excuse herself to leave the room.

-/-

When she comes back to the table (she's seated between Kristoff and Elsa, which works well enough), they finally seem to have found a decent point in conversation. Without her presence it seems to have been made much easier. David and Ingrid are chatting about his campaign (the sentence ruins her appetite), Anna and Elsa are talking about Elsa's latest case in her social work pursuits, and Mary Margaret and Kristoff are having an intense conversation about ice sales.

Apparently Kristoff is an ice salesman. Who knew.

Emma doesn't say a word for the rest of lunch.

-/-

She isn't as lucky when it comes to gift-giving.

Emma tries with her presents, believe it or not. Mary Margaret gets a big print of an idyllic painting that Emma caught her eyeing at the mall months ago and David gets a new watch (he can never take off his broken one, though she kept bugging him about it for months). Emma gives Elsa a necklace that seems right up her alley. She gifts Anna with a giftcard to the best bakery in Portland and Kristoff with a generic Amazon giftcard because she doesn't know what else to get him.

Elsa gets Emma a camera case, Mary Margaret gives her a handwoven blanket, Anna and Kristoff gift a light brown leather jacket, and Ingrid's is, well,

Nancy Drew's The Secret of the Old Clock, first edition dated back to the 1930s. The thing must have cost a fortune.

Typical for Ingrid.

"You used to love those books when you were a kid," Ingrid offers, a small smile coloring her lips. "Which makes sense, for both of the careers you went on to have. I thought…"

"You could win me over with expensive shit," Emma responds, crossing her arms. "Yeah. I know what you thought."

"It isn't like that. I just-"

Emma walks out of the room before she gets the chance to finish her sentence.

-/-

She sits on the bed of the guest bedroom, which is thankfully still in its perpetual state of empty.

This was a bad idea, from start to finish.

"I didn't get the chance to give you my gift," David says, rapping his knuckles against the door as he enters the room. A small package is in the other hand.

"Sorry," Emma mutters, looking up to meet his eyes. "I was more concerned with fleeing at the time."

"I noticed," he replies, not unkindly, moving to sit next to her. David sets the gift in her lap.

She sighs, exaggeratedly, and opens it. Emma finds a small, ornately carved wooden box the size of her palm under the wrapping paper. Frowning, she opens it to reveal a necklace with a swan pendant dangling from its chain.

"You lost it when you were sixteen," David explains with a small, contemplative smile. "You were so upset. Said it was something you had for as long as you could remember. I teased you for being sentimental, great brother that I was. For years afterwards, you'd reach for it on your neck without it being there."

"You found it?" she asks, looking up to meet his gaze a little mystified.

"I don't know if it's the same one or just something really close to it," he shrugs. "I did bother about every antique dealer and pawn shop within an hour's drive, though. Don't worry, Gold's old place isn't the one that had it."

Emma tries not to sniffle and fails, tears springing to her eyes. "Jesus, David. You're making my gifts look like shit."

He rolls his eyes, gesturing to his wrist. "Please, I really needed that new watch. You were right, the old one needs to go."

She laughs, a little, before the mood between them turns a little more somber. They both stare at the wall in front of them, unsure of what to say.

"Why do you want to run for sheriff?" Emma asks, uncomfortably. "After all the shit that happened, why is that something that you want?"

"You're right," David sighs. "Things are pretty bleak right now, especially in the department. But I want to make it better. I need to make it better. I won't be able to live with myself if all I do is just stand idly by and let it stay that way."

Emma shakes her head. "Of course, you're doing it for the greater good. That sounds like you."

"I could really use your brains to help me out," David says, casually.

Emma scoffs, wrapping her sweater a little tighter around herself. "I think my brains would hurt you more than it would help you. I'm not exactly popular with the police."

"I don't need someone popular with the police, I need someone to help me act for the people."

"What?" Emma raises her eyebrows, "Now they're mutually exclusive? My, my, David, you really have changed."

David sighs, looking weary. "They're not, but the way things are going they may as well be. Things have only gotten worse since you left."

Emma's expression furrows. "What do you mean?"

"After what happened with...Arthur only seems to be getting worse and worse. Thinks he can get away with anything, and maybe he can at this point. Albert doesn't give a damn, either, I think he's encouraging it."

"The noble and true Storybrooke police department," she mutters.

"Reports of use of excessive force have skyrocketed and they all point at the two of them, Emma." David scrubs with face with his hands, leaning against the paneling of the porch. "Someone has to do something about it."

Emma nods, thinking of Graham and the kid he died to save. "Spoken like a true hero."

David frowns. "Not quite. I just...I want this to be the job I dreamed about when I was a kid, again. Saving people. Stopping the bad guys. The bad guys weren't supposed to be the people working alongside you, they were supposed to be the people that got a fair trial and a fitting sentence."

She nods, looking contemplative.

"Why didn't you quit with me?" Emma asks, wrapping her arms around her legs.

David shrugs.

"Someone had to stay behind and make sure Albert and Arthur don't burn the town to the ground."

"Unlike cutting and running, like me." Emma mutters, tucking her chin over her knees.

David shakes his head. "You went through hell, Emma. Being around them wouldn't have helped you. You're helping people in your own way, I get that now."

She snorts derisively. "Yeah, I'm really helping the community by snapping those dirty pictures."

"You're investigating a psychopath for the sake of a child," David points out. "That seems pretty heroic to me."

"Ingrid pays decent money. I like having a stable salary every now and then. Helps me keep the electricity on and Netflix subscription paid."

"No," David interjects. "You can fool a lot of people with that 'I don't give a shit' act, but you've never been able to fool me. You care, Emma. You've always cared, you just act like you don't because you feel like you care too much."

Emma stays silent for a moment, arms still crossed and eyes going to her boots.

She grumbles, after a moment, "What is it with you and Elsa and trying to be my shrink?"

David rolls his eyes. "Accept the fact that people love you and want you to think better of yourself. It isn't that hard, I promise."

Emma sighs in exasperation.

"I'm not a great campaigner, you know."

"I know," David answers quietly.

"I can't write speeches for shit."

"I remember tenth grade pretty vividly, thanks," David laughs, bumping her shoulder with his. "I'm not asking for you to become my organizer, Emma. I just want to know that...you're behind me, is all."

"David," she nearly reprimands, because he should know better. "I'm always behind you. A hundred percent."

"And I'm always behind you," he replies, tucking his arm over her shoulder. "A hundred percent."

David officially announces his candidacy a few days later.


	3. culpability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update, as promised! Thank you guys so, so much for the wonderful reviews and kind words. I really appreciate it. I hope you all had a great holiday and enjoy this chapter!

"Tell me everything you know about Gold," Emma calls as she walks into Ingrid's office. It's after the New Year, and she isn't bringing up Christmas if she can avoid it.

Ingrid sighs, "Your dedication to your client's discretion is admirable, the way you call it out for the entire building to hear."

"I assumed everyone knew about the lawsuit," Emma shrugs, not concerned in the least. "My bad. Anyway, I'm going to need more information from you."

Ingrid raises her chin, challengingly. "Isn't that what I hired you for?"

"I know you. You wouldn't come to me unless it were an absolute last resort, you've probably hired a few private investigators before resorting to little old me."

Ingrid sighs and Emma knows she's caught her.

"He's close friends with the mayor, for one."

"She's what, his puppet?"

"Mutually beneficial partnership, from what I hear. Gold brings business, Regina turns a blind eye to regulation."

"The beautiful cohesion of capitalism and government," Emma comments sarcastically. "It really warms the heart."

"Good for cohesion, it seems not a lot of things can do that for you these days," Ingrid replies under her breath.

Emma stiffens. "Keep your fucking book, Ingrid. I have no use for kids' stories anymore."

Ingrid doesn't even reply. Emma slams the door of her office shut behind her.

-/-

Emma isn't able to determine much more about Gold and Regina's relationship, beyond that. Sure, she tracks a few generous campaign contributions from Gold to her re-election as mayor last year, but it's nothing that jaw dropping.

It's nothing she can actually use, in short.

Emma goes to Gold's in a last ditch effort. She's a little tired of not having much to show for the various hoops she jumps through.

She gets lucky when she's able to duck past the front desk. Even luckier when she finds the door to one of the labs wide open - the security here is _abysmal_. She can't understand coding for shit, but maybe one of the laptops she's spotted in there can help her out. Her hood is up and her face is covered, so, cameras or not…

Emma opens one of the computers, glancing over her shoulder surreptitiously, and thinks she might actually be able to pull this really stupid plan off.

So, of course it asks for a fucking password.

Emma groans.

It's also just her luck that she feels someone else's presence in the room before she can manage to hide.

"You know, if we keep on running into each other like this I think we're going to have to have a conversation."

Mysterious stranger who lurks at Gold's strikes again.

"You again," she mutters, turning around to face the familiar voice. This time, she's met with a face. He looks like he's early thirties with closely cut facial hair, dark hair, and light eyes. He's a looker, she has to admit. He still looks familiar, but at this point if she doesn't recognize him she doesn't know if she ever will.

"You again," he mirrors her stance, shifting his weight to one side. It's only then that she notices one of his hands is prosthetic. "I recognize your voice. I didn't get to see much of what you looked like. I must confess, I'm not disappointed by the sight."

Emma cocks her head to the side. "Hitting on me in the equivalent of a morgue, huh? Smooth."

"Hitting on you?" he raises his eyebrows. "Well, I don't even know your name."

Emma narrows her eyes. "And I don't know yours."

"Killian Jones, at your service." he says, without hesitation, complete with a small bow.

Her lips twitch. She briefly contemplates which name to give him: the fake one from one of her earlier visits or the real one. Emma scans her surroundings a little suspiciously.

"There are no cameras here," he assures her, following her line of sight. "If there were, I can't imagine I'd be a popular visitor."

Emma's expression furrows. He's telling the truth. "Why? What happened?"

"Seems like a lot to confess to a woman whose name I don't even know," he challenges.

Emma relents. She's going to need information out of him, anyway, if he's really such an unpopular figure here. "Emma Swan. My name is Emma Swan."

"Emma," he repeats, the word rolling off his tongue. "I like it. Suits you."

Killian starts walking away after a beat of silence.

"Wait! Where the hell are you going?"

"Just because we're not necessarily being recorded, Swan, doesn't mean I fancy staying in here too long," he calls over his shoulder.

She follows him with an exaggerated sigh.

-/-

They walk a block away from the building before he really starts talking.

"I take it you aren't a fan of Gold, hm?" Killian asks distractedly, walking in stride with her.

"A girl killed herself thanks to the fucked up simulation of her dad she talked to," Emma replies, as conversationally as possible.

She gets the feeling she can trust him with this sort of information, given he can hardly say Gold's name without a sneer. Again, Emma is good at picking out liars.

"Sounds about right," Killian frowns. "Unfortunately, the facilities there are locked down tight. I should know better than most."

"Why are you going after Gold?" she asks, tilting her head to the side and stopping in front of him.

Killian shakes his head. "It's a long, complicated story."

"I'm self-employed. I have time."

"Self-employed and self-motivated, he comments wryly. "Let me guess, P.I.?"

"Now you're catching on." Emma deadpans.

He stops in the street, staring at his feet for a minute. "You really want to know?"

"Yes," Emma answers resolutely. "If I didn't, I wouldn't have asked."

"Fair enough," he murmurs, taking a deep breath before continuing on. "I met Milah a few years ago and fell in love with her not long after that."

"And Milah was your…"

"Married," he answers abruptly. "She was married. Not to me, but-"

"Milah Gold," Emma murmurs in realization. "his wife. She died before the company started."

Killian grimaces. "She wanted to leave him, for a while. She truly did. Milah must have sent him divorce papers a hundred times, but as the wealthiest man in town his lawyers had significantly more sway than hers. We met...we met at a bar. She told the most enchanting stories and her eyes lit up whenever she did. I loved her. I didn't care about where she came from, what kind of possessive prat her husband was. I loved her and wanted to take her away from this miserable place."

"And then she died," Emma summarizes, quietly.

"No," Killian replies with barely concealed rage. "Then she was murdered. You see, Gold gets angry when he isn't in control. That's what it always came down to. He didn't love her. He just wanted control over her."

"He killed her," she repeats, horrified. "So the stories about the car accident, the entire premise of his business is all…"

"Lies?" he answers, stuffing his hand into the pocket of his dark leather jacket. "Aye. There was a car accident, all right, but the driver didn't have long to live in the first place. His family got a lofty life insurance payment. Gold made sure no one looked twice. As for his business...he must have been planning this long before Milah died."

"She was just a good excuse," Emma quietly fills in the blanks.

"Kill two birds with one stone," he mutters, bitterly. "I reckon the only reason he keeps me alive is to torture me with the memories. He knows I can't do anything about it. I was disgraced before I met Milah and I'll stay that way until I'm the one who's dead. A reminder of his ceaseless rip on power."

' _Crazy motherfucker_ ," is the only descriptor Emma can think of. It doesn't do nearly enough to describe Gold, honestly.

Killian lets out a sharp exhale of breath that sounds something like a laugh. "I think that's putting it lightly, love."

"That's why you want to go after him, then? Why you skulk around his building and," she gestures for a moment, not quite knowing how to continue. "Everything else. You want revenge for what he did to you."

"Yes," he says, resolutely. "I want revenge. I want the man who killed Milah to understand that he can't just get away with it. I want him to regret leaving me alive. But most of all, I want…"

Killian pauses for a moment. His sentence is left hanging in the air, incomplete.

"You want what?"

He eyes the street behind them contemplatively. "Why tell you all that when I could show you."

Emma scrunches her face in confusion. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Killian grabs her hand, steering her in the opposite direction of what they were previously walking. "Come along, Swan."

Emma groans. "Is this the part where you show me a dead body or something?"

"Not quite that morbid, but close. Very close."

-/-

They end up back at Gold's.

"The simulation," Emma frowns, understanding it now they're in front of the building.

"Aye," he nods, solemnly. "I suppose that's what they're calling it, now."

The building is dark and closed, almost more ominous than when it was open. If it's possible, it seems even more haunted by the ghosts that reside within it.

"How do you expect to get i-"

He punches in the security code on the door before she has the chance to finish her sentence, opening the door wide open for her.

Emma can't help but looking impressed.

"I have a friend on the inside, you could say," he says, as if the information is inconsequential to him. "Don't worry, cameras should be off."

Emma steps inside the building. "The work of your friend?"

"Something like that," he says with a grin, following at her heels.

Killian leads her to a door, one that she's all too familiar with.

Emma bites her lip, glancing at the handle. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"No," he answers, honestly. "But we've already come all this way, now. No point in turning back."

The room is sterile and white, just like all the others. An armchair, a couch, and a table fill the space - intended for something like comfort. It gives Emma anything but.

Killian spends some at the screens that control the simulations, obviously used to the process if the speed at which he does it is any indication. Emma spent a solid hour inputting all the options for Graham, Killian is done in minutes.

He lets out a sharp exhale when he's finally done, head bowed over the console of the machine. "Are you sure you want to see this?"

Emma gives him a curt nod, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm sure."

Killian meets her eyes for a minute before hitting the button.

A woman who looks about ten years older than the both of them appears. Or rather, the hologram of her appears. With dark curly hair and bright blue eyes, it's not hard to see at least part of the reason that Killian fell in love with her.

That is, until this twisted version of her starts talking.

"Killian Jones?" Milah sneers and Emma can't pretend not to notice how much he flinches. "You're nothing to me. A mistake, one that got me killed."

This one _really_ wastes no time in cutting right to the chase.

"I've told this apparition a million times that her husband was the one who killed her, but she repeats this line over and over again," he says the words so quietly she can hardly hear him. "A personal hell designed specifically for me. I've come in and inputted that I was different people, of course, and if they ask her how she died it's always the same - a tragic car accident."

He says the last words, the foundation of Gold's entire empire, as if they're nothing more than a cruel joke.

Emma looks at the curve of his jaw, muscle drawn so tight it looks like it might snap. His eyes stare blankly ahead at the woman - robotically waiting for her next queue. Killian presses the button that ends the simulation angrily.

"With me it's _'Killian, you killed me'_ over and over again."

Emma sighs, leaning up against the opposite wall with her arms crossed. She takes a minute to look at the woman and sees something familiar in her. She recognizes the curls in her hair, the curve of her waist and realizes that she _knows_ Milah.

She looks over to Killian again and something else clicks.

A lot of things come into place for her, right then.

A mundane call from a husband asking her to provide proof of his wife cheating. Nothing about it is unique, except the fact the man refuses to meet with her in person at all, doesn't give her his name, and just sends her cash (twice her usual rate) back with a signed contract. Information is attached on where to send the pictures. Milah pressed up against Killian in a seedy motel room (the cheating spouses never use curtains and she rolls her eyes from her spot across the street - legs dangling over the fire escape and camera in hand). Emma uses the extra money to buy gas and liquor. Over and done with in just two days.

Milah Gold - wife of area real estate mogul - dies a week later. Automobile accident. Emma doesn't see the picture, just skims the headline on the newspaper on the corner of the street and runs to catch up with the latest bail jumper.

Emma feels like she's going to throw up.

"Are you alright, Swan?" Killian asks her with something like genuine concern. It makes her all the sicker.

"I'm fine," she mutters unconvincingly.

"I...I didn't kill her. You have to believe me," he looks pained as he pleads with her.

She swallows, hard. "I know."

 _Because I did._ She thinks.

Emma wonders if people would slow down long enough to see her face with the headline _: Jealous husband met with proof of his wife's infidelity. Kills her. Local private investigator makes $600._

He looks unconvinced.

Emma makes a valiant attempt to change the subject, "Gold knows you come here?"

"Of course he does. I get his services free of charge, you see. A reminder of my sins."

"Aren't you worried he records this?"

"I lived for years as a thief, love, I know how to turn a few cameras off."

She nods, anxiously. The mention of cameras makes her even queasier.

Emma stares where the vision of Milah used to be.

"The first time I saw her...this her. I was so relieved to see her again," Killian says, the words bubbling over with more bitterness than she thought humanly possible. "I snuck in. Thought if maybe Gold brought back Milah, I'd get to talk to her. Say goodbye. Tell her I love her."

"This isn't Milah" Emma points out.

He laughs harshly. "As I came to find out."

"I should go," she mutters abruptly, turning around to face the door. "I should go."

"Swan?" Killian asks from behind her. "What's the matter?"

Emma leaves before he can get an answer.

He doesn't follow her. It could be that he's dealing with his own shit or he's trying to be respectful, Emma doesn't know either way. She's not sure she wants to.

Her hands shake when she gets to her car to put the keys in the ignition.

-/-

Emma spends the next day sulking in her office, contemplating what a shitty person she is, in true Emma fashion.

She reads through a few articles on Gold's company, just to at least feel somewhat productive. To her surprise, she finds something that might be of some use to her - the name of the university he developed the plans for his company at - good old University of Maine. Emma swears she's heard the name before (from Merlin?), but she didn't see much significance in it at the time.

Now, it's at least some consolation to know that she has somewhere else to put her damn nose. Maybe then she'll feel less useless.

-/-

She adopts the same persona as she did when she toured Gold's company - Elizabeth Nolan, current student at the University of New England.

Professor Isaac Heller is all too anxious to help her out when she inquires about their technology department under the guise of deciding whether or not she should transfer there.

(Faking transcripts? Not as hard as it sounds, believe it or not.)

"This is where the research for Gold's company started, right?" Emma asks, gesturing to the classroom she's currently standing in. She means the building as a whole, but, whatever. It makes her point nonetheless.

"Indeed it is!" Isaac's voice nearly booms, looking so proud of himself his eyes just might fall out of his head with how much they're bulging. "The University of Maine is so proud to host such a huge step forward in technological progress!"

Emma wonders why the psychology department doesn't have him on fucking sedative.

"How did Gold come up with...holograms of dead guys? Wasn't he just a real estate agent guy before? He has a degree in business, not science."

Isaac becomes a little less peppy, at that. Emma would worry about that blowing her cover if she wasn't so relieved at not having to deal with Professor Suckup at a hundred miles an hour."He's always been very interested in the sciences, from what I hear. A group of our student researchers and one of our faculty worked very closely with him to develop the fundamentals of his program. In fact, a few of them - including one of our professors - are now working for Gold as one of his leading scientists!"

"Oh," Emma comments, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. "Can I ask who that faculty member was?"

Isaac chooses then to look at her a little suspiciously. "Why do you ask? You are very curious indeed about our partnership with Gold Inc., aren't you?"

So, Emma does what she's learned has the highest effectiveness rate in situations like these.

She quickly rubs at the corners of her eyes to start weeping uncontrollably.

Isaac looks panicked.

_Bingo._

"I'm so sorry to have upset you, Miss Nolan." he says anxiously. "What seems to be the matter?"

"My professor," she gets out through the heaving sobs, putting her hands to her face for added effect. "Is going to kill me."

"Oh, no, dear," he mutters, patting her back. The movement is less reassuring, more acting like he's trying to swat at a particularly annoying fly on her back. What a prick. "Why don't you tell me what's going on?"

"My professor," Emma gasps out, yet again. "Dr. Phillips? She wanted to know the people who helped start the company because she really, really wants to bring the program at New England to Gold's company. She thinks that if she gets to know the people there already she'll already have a leg in. It's all really competitive with Maine, so I was supposed to keep that secret."

Dr. Aurora Phillips is a real professor at the University of New England. She checked the faculty list, just in case. Emma highly doubts she's conspiring to enter Gold's company, but she's not planning on checking back in with good old Isaac later on about it.

All she can hope is that poor Dr. Phillips doesn't end up with absurdist letters from the University of Maine. Given that she teaches Romantic Literature, Emma thinks she will be okay.

"Oh," Isaac says, a little befuddled. "That is indeed strange. But nothing to cry about, is it?"

The last words are said so pedantically she wants to roll her eyes. It's also why the crying works so well. Isaac will just brush this experience off as silly women and emotions.

Which will work for her purposes.

"The name of our faculty member who went to work for Gold in official capacity is Victor Whale. It's a bit of a shame, he was the one to make the discovery and Gold came in and took all the...I've said enough." he says finally. "I wish you and your professor all the best. Just be a little more honest next time, yes?"

Emma is already out the door before he finishes his sentence.

-/-

Luckily, Whale is already in the building. He's required to spend a certain amount of hours teaching at the university to be considered part of the faculty, even part time, and Emma is fortunate enough to find him twenty minutes before his class ends. She waits outside until the students start to filter out and stomps her way in

"Victor Whale!" she practically shouts, turning him around to face her by the shoulder. "We need to talk."

He must recognize her, judging by the way his eyes bulge out of his head.

"Pass." he says, stiffly.

"Yeah, sorry, that wasn't an accept or deny invitation." Emma says, curtly. "Where do you know me from?"

"I don't have to answer these questions," Whale blusters defensively. He moves to leave, but Emma stops him with her blocking his path.

"I don't think you understand the extent to which I can make your life a living hell - beginning with your drinking problem and ending with your gambling habit."

Maybe she did some investigating while waiting for his class to be let out. So sue her. Her phone has an internet connection and she had some free time.

"And you're wondering how I recognize you," he scoffs. "I knew you were a that private dick when I saw you with Merlin, Emma Swan."

"The only dick here is you," she retorts derisively. "And that has you shaking in your boots?"

Whale pauses. "You did just threaten to blackmail me. A bartender at the bar I go to also mentioned the time you chased him down for skipping bail. He was pretty traumatized."

Emma rolls her eyes, "Yeah, well, maybe your friend should stop trying to paw at wo- _nevermind_. You're the brains behind Gold's operation, aren't you?"

Whale narrows his eyes. "I work for him, yes."

"A trustworthy source said you were the one to make the discovery. Now he's the one making all the money off of it while people couldn't think of your name if they tried. How does that feel?"

He shakes his head. "You must be mistaken."

_What a goddamn liar._

"The only reason I can think of that you would decide to lay back and take that is if Gold had something on your little discovery that could ruin it," Emma points out. "like, I don't know, the fact that it isn't exactly what it seems. The brains of the dead, huh? Seems like a pretty rapid advance in neuroscience from a computer science professor."

"You need to stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong." Whale replies sharply, striding to the other side of the room.

Emma follows him, undeterred. "You can't take a person's brain matter and make a conscious at all, can you?"

"No, you know what, I can't. But you're wrong on that being my reasoning - it was only ever intended to be based off of recollections of loved ones. I spent my whole goddamn life trying, trying to prove myself - show that I could be the one to make the world better."

"And now you've made it _worse_ ," Emma taunts, getting angrier by the second. "Now Gold is taking all the credit for your fucked up invention and what do you have? Nothing besides a cheap hologram of the people you used to love made by an input of the stories about them that other people's memories probably fucked up on remembering correctly."

Victor leans over his desk, distraught.

"What I want to know is why you gave up the fame and fortune just to become Gold's pet scientist. If not because the discovery was bullshit, then what?"

Victor gives her a haunted look. "Robert Gold is a very powerful man."

"Yeah, and it's your research that made him that way."

"Not exactly," Victor grimaces.

"What do you mean, _'Not exactly,'_ "

"What I mean is…" Victor trails off, looking miserable. "Gold has been playing people a lot longer than this company has been open."

She scoffs, unsatisfied. "Yeah, you're still being vague as hell and completely unhelpful."

"What would do you?" Victor explodes, turning around to face her and shouting the words. "What would you do if the richest man in town told you that you could see the people you loved again and he'd give you the money to make it happen - grant all your proposals and give you anything you could ever want?"

Emma bristles. "What, now you're turning this on me?"

"You're a private investigator," Victor sneers. "I'm sure you've done bad shit for less."

She wants to punch him all the more because he's right.

By the look on his face, he knows it.

"Listen, asshole," Emma growls, grabbing him by the collar and getting up in his face in a way that can only be menacing. "You're right. I've done things I've regretted. But the difference between you and me is I'm not too much of a coward to fix my fuck ups. That's what I'm doing right now. What can _you_ say?"

Victor sighs. She lets him go.

There's silence between them for a minute.

"It's an addiction, seeing them." he starts, sitting down on the counter and staring at the hands in his lap. "Your family. More than the drinking, more than the gambling. My brother died and it was my fault, you know. I got to see him again because of Gold. Without the money, I couldn't do that. And I can see him as many times as I want. Get advice, you know. Tell him about my day."

"But he isn't _real_ ," Emma points out, tone much softer than before.

Victor exhales shakily. "I know."

"A lot of vulnerable people are being hurt by Gold, Whale."

"I know."

"A girl killed herself after her family couldn't afford to let her see her dead dad anymore, Whale." Emma points out, shakily. "The hologram posing as her father told her that she killed him by telling him she couldn't come to visit anymore. People have been admitted into mental institutions. They've had to see the people that they love molded into tools for Gold to make money. Gold doesn't care who he hurts. He killed his own wife to do it."

Victor just sits, stoic.

"And you know all this." she notes, disgust and disappointment in her voice. "You know all this and you still continue with this."

His reply is quiet. "What am I supposed to do?"

Emma sits next to him, crossing her arms and spitting out her next words.

"From one miserable asshole to another - grow a fucking backbone instead of talking to walls and pointing fingers."

Victor looks up at her, abrupt. "What?"

"You heard me," she says, unapologetically. "Gold is a psychotic human being, but you're just pathetic. You don't care how many people get hurt so long as you get your fix. You're just as much as a tool for Gold as those fucking holograms."

"This is hardly a pep talk."

"It isn't meant to be one." Emma stands up, glaring. "I told you he murdered his wife and you didn't bat an eyelash. A teenaged girl hung herself in her bedroom and you can't even muster an ounce of responsibility. Losing people sucks, I get that, my parents ditched me on the side of the road when I was an hour old and one of your fucking optical illusions posed as my dead boyfriend to tell me to put more coins in his machine. If you want to watch more people drop dead so you can talk to a robot with your brother's face, be my guest. But don't expect me to buy into your bullshit excuses for it."

Emma just about spits out the last words.

Victor falls silent, at that.

"You have two choices, here," Emma begins again, regaining her composure. "either you can live the rest of your life like this or _do something about it_."

"If I'm such a pathetic excuse for a human being, why even bother?"

Emma can tell she has him, finally, and can't hold back the smirk.

"Because I need to stop him from doing this to people. You're going to be recognized for something - something good - for once in your miserable life and help me."

Victor lets out a ragged sigh.

She walks out of the room feeling victorious.

(At the very least, the phone in the pocket of her jacket recorded the conversation.)

-/-

Emma wanders the halls of Gold's, later that day. She isn't really sure why. No one seems to ask questions, though, and she's able to do it in relative peace.

Her eyes linger on the door that Killian led her through.

 _Guilt_. Guilt is what brought her here.

She exhales deeply, burying her face in her hands and sitting on a nearby bench. Maybe that's why no one asks questions, she looks like just another depressed addict looking for a fix.

She isn't an addict. Not on this, anyway. Despite that, Emma could swear she's hallucinating when she sees the same kid she recognizes from Christmas Eve sitting down not far from her.

Emma frowns. Then she decides to approach him before she can talk herself out of it.

"Do you need help finding your family, kid?" Emma asks, crouching down to the kid's level and curling a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's easy to get lost in these hallways, isn't it?"

"I'm not lost," he says sadly, looking down at his sneakers. "My mom is in there."

He points to one of the doors that host the simulations.

Her heart breaks.

"It's not really my mom, though," he adds. "It just looks like her. Sounds like her, too, but if it were really my mom...she'd be different."

This kid can't be any older than eleven, but he's already wiser than ninety percent of the people in this city.

"I hope one day I can find my real mom. Not the dead one, even, she adopted me. I want to find my birth mom. Then I don't have to stay in these stupid foster homes."

Her eyes gloss over, remembering her own foster care centered childhood and the way it ended - her giving birth chained to a prison bed. "What's your name, kid?"

"Henry," he answers, quickly. "My name is Henry. What's yours."

"Emma." she replies, standing up and holding her hand out. "We're going to find your foster family. Not all of them are great, believe me, I know. But some aren't bad."

Henry takes her hand. "How would you know?"

"I was a foster kid, growing up," she begins, a little hesitantly. "When I was 13 this woman named Ingrid adopted me. I thought having her as my mom was the coolest thing, she even looked like me. I got the best big brother in the world with it too - his name is David, he's a cop now - and a pair of amazing cousins."

"So, you're happy now with your family?" Henry asks, simply.

Emma's mouth parts a little. She lies. "One hundred percent."

She manages to return him to a pair of foster parents somewhere in the building who don't seem nearly concerned enough about where their foster child has disappeared to. Emma frowns when she returns Henry back to them. Nonetheless, the kid seems comforted by the tales of her amazing family.

False hope? Maybe. But the kid has been through enough shit, she's not here to pile onto that.

(About half of it was true, anyway. It's just Ingrid that fucks up the rest of the dynamic.)

-/-

"Here's everything I have on Gold," Emma mutters, handing over the files and a USB drive to Ingrid later that night. "Notes on the simulations, financial records, criminal history, background check, interviews, some of the drafts from his best researchers and the revelations on how this shit really works, you name it."

"Thorough," Ingrid remarks passively, lifting the folder up. "Do I ask how you got all this?"

Emma shrugs. "You can ask. Doesn't mean I'll answer."

Ingrid snorts. "And do you have anyone I could use as testimony against him? I'm going to need those, any hits on his credibility, if this case goes any further."

"A scientist who came up with the hologram shit. Gold took all of his ideas to create his company as we know it," Emma replies, her back thudding against the door. "I recorded my conversation with him."

"Was it civil?" Ingrid raises an eyebrow.

"I didn't threaten him with bodily harm, if that's what you're asking. At least, not blatantly."

"Hm. Well," Ingrid hums, flipping open the folder on her desk with "With how much you've changed, I don't know what to expect."

"The saddest part is is that with you I don't know if you've changed or if you've been like this from day one." Emma cocks her head to the side.

"Emma…" Ingrid trails off.

She interrupts her. "Address the check to me directly. I've done my job here."

Ingrid sighs, pulling out her checkbook and signing it with a flourish. She tears it out and hands it to Emma, who grabs it without a second glance.

"Will this scientist testify?" Ingrid asks, back on the task at hand.

Emma shrugs. "He better. But that's your business, not mine."

"That's what I mean when I talk about how I don't know this you anymore," Ingrid starts again, and Emma groans. "The girl who went from wanting to save the world to pretending not to give a damn about justice for a dead girl."

"Cut the bullshit, Ingrid." Emma retorts, harshly. "We both know you don't give a shit about what happens to that girl so long as you get your fucking paycheck at the end of the day."

"I'm doing this pro bono," Ingrid says, defensively. "Ashley Boyd can, understandably, not afford to pay me a dime on this case and I understood that when I took it."

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, and how much of a cut are you expecting to get when the richest man in town settles? He's paying penalties, not a jail sentence."

Ingrid goes quiet, then.

"Next time, if you want me to do you dirty work, just contact me online," Emma grumbles. "That way I don't have to interact with you any more than I need to. Better yet, try finding another private detective. Feeling sick at my stomach after being in your company isn't worth the money."

Emma tears the check in front of her, the pieces falling on the floor like sloppily made confetti. She doesn't look back when she leaves the room.

-/-

When Emma was a teenager who just warmed up to the idea of a mother who might actually be fostering her for something other than extra cash in the mail, she dreamed of being like her mom one day. Ingrid worked as a domestic violence attorney before she got the flashy office and the multiple assistants running coffee for her as she barked orders to some Wall Street banker over the phone to settle between $10 and $20 million. She was a single mom, trying to support both Emma and David on a government salary. But Ingrid worked tirelessly - for victims of abuse, for her adopted kids, for every sad, alone, and oppressed person in her tiny town.

Emma used to dream of becoming like her mother.

Now it's one of her greatest fears.

Isn't it fucked up how that works out?

The thought rattles around in her brain, not giving her a moment of peace in her completely silent office. Emma sits down at her desk and lets her forehead hit the wood. She exhales, shakily.

Maybe Ingrid had a point. Maybe Emma - in all her hardening after Graham's death and all the shit that came after - changed for the worst. Maybe she pushed people away and gave less of a shit about other people. Maybe she got blood on her hands.

She thinks of Milah and of Killian. She can't stop seeing the vision of the woman that can't stop repeating that her lover killed her when it's _her_ that fucking did it. Emma not knowing any better isn't any excuse.

So what separates her from Ingrid at the end of the day? Acknowledging she's a fuck up? Or doing something about it?

Maybe it'll come down to a combination of the two.

Emma is going to do exactly what she told Whale to do. Take some accountability for her own damn actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I live for feedback, so if you could leave a comment below with your thoughts I'd really appreciate it.


	4. quality decisionmaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I decided to space the updates out a little more to give people more time to read (and me more time to edit) so I hope that's alright! I was originally planning on waiting until Sunday to post this, but I'm weak willed as hell. I can't thank the people who have given me so much incredible, positive feedback enough. It means the world to me.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include discussions of death (...as is the entire fic), references to drinking, references to sex, etc. I hope you enjoy!

Emma knocks on the door in front of her more than a little reluctantly.

This is her mess. She has to clean it up. That doesn't mean she's going to enjoy it, but it does mean she has to muster enough courage to deal with it.

Killian looks surprised to see her when he opens up the door to find her on the other side of it. Which is understandable, given that he's hardly given his address out.

"Swan," he greets, forearm resting against his door casually. Killian's expression gives nothing away. She isn't sure whether to be relieved or concerned. "How can I help you?"

She sways a little bit, adjusting her weight on her legs uncomfortably. Sheer willpower brought her to his door sober, but that willpower is fading quickly and Emma briefly ponders if this would be easier if she were drunk enough to forget it in the morning. "What, you're not going to ask how I found out where you lived?"

Killian shrugs. She only gives him a deadpan stare in return, waiting for his reply.

He shakes his head with a wry chuckle and an upwards flicking of his gaze, giving into her easily. "How did you determine my place of residence, Swan?"

"I'm a private investigator," Emma replies, curtly. While Killian is relaxed and bemused, she's still rigid and anxious.

Killian seems to notice and he studies her for a brief moment. "So you were able to use your wide expanse of skill to track me down, I see. I assumed as much, to be quite honest with you. The only question I have is why you've decided to pay me a house call."

The words aren't said accusingly, which makes this even harder.

"I'm a private investigator," Emma spits out, repeating her words. "I catch people with their pants around their ankles for a living. It's not glamorous, it pays bills."

"As you've just said," he replies, confused. "I'm hardly in a position to judge you for the integrity of your job, Swan."

"That's what you don't get," she mutters. "It has _everything_ to do with my job when someone over the phone pays you twice your usual fee to catch a wife he suspects is cheating without disclosing his identity. It has everything to do with his wife turning up dead a week later."

"Swan," Killian says, aghast but still missing the point. "You're not responsible for the actions of other pe-."

"The man on the phone was Robert Gold," Emma adds, abruptly. "The woman I snapped pictures of was Milah. She was with you."

All he can do is gape at her, shell-shocked. He takes a step back and she tries not to cringe.

"How long have you known?" he asks, in a way that's impossible for her to decipher his feelings.

"I figured it out when I saw the hologram," she answers, truthfully. "You seemed familiar to me, but I didn't connect the dots until then."

"That it was me with her?"

"That it was her, period. I had no idea who either of you were when I took those pictures."

"...And you blame yourself?" he asks, incredulously.

Emma wrings her hands. "I'm the reason all of this happened. If he didn't know, if she could have gotten away sooner...she'd still be alive. If I hadn't done that job, none of this would be happening. He wouldn't have a reason to start this in the first place if she were still alive. Milah is dead because of what I've done, Killian. That girl is dead because of me."

Killian shakes his head in disbelief. "You can't honestly believe that, Swan."

"Do I look like I'm lying?" she asks harshly, eyes boring into his.

"You look like you're taking a lot of responsibility for actions that aren't yours," he replies, undeterred, "Gold did these things. Not you. This is Gold's fault."

"Yeah, well," she murmurs, gaze going to her boots. "I sure as fuck didn't help the situation."

Killian just takes a look at her with a weary sigh.

"Come in, love. You need a drink and some sleep to clear your head."

-/-

They end up seated on his couch, a bottle of rum between them. She pours herself a generous glass. This conversation is definitely going to require alcohol. Emma downs the first glass without a second glace. Killian doesn't so much as raise an eyebrow. He doesn't do much of anything, which is just making her more on-edge. When she's more on edge, she pours a second drink.

It's kind of a vicious cycle, one she ends up interrupting herself as she realizes Killian is waiting for her to start talking.

(Because that's what she loves to do. Talk about her feelings.)

"This is the part where you shout at me and tell me how betrayed you feel for trusting the woman who got your girlfriend killed," Emma states in a monotone, staring at the opposite wall and slumping further into his couch. She can't muster the courage to face him, alcohol or not.

"Why would I shout at you if I don't feel betrayed?"

He sounds exasperated, sure, but not pissed. Emma is starting to get a little pissed that he's not pissed, to be honest.

"Because you didn't trust me in the first place," she surmises. "Understandable, given you learned my name last night, but you still should be angry."

"I didn't say that," he retorts, frustration clear in his voice. "Emma, I don't blame you for what happened."

Emma knows this can't even be remotely true.

"Let me draw it out for you in detail," she says. "Gold called me, asking for proof of his wife fooling around. I took pictures of you and her fucking and sent it to him, Killian, and that sent him over the edge enough to kill her."

Killian exhales, setting his face in his hand. "Did you know that would happen?"

"No, but it's not like it makes it any better," Emma answers harshly, fingernails pressing against the inside of her palms. "I do this for a living. I don't care what happens after I'm done, I just get the paycheck and go on to the next life to ruin. The circumstances, the consequences, none of it factors in. I just get my money and I run."

"Aye, you seem very flippant about it," Killian mutters sarcastically. "What, with all your insisting on me hating you for it. The actions of a woman who doesn't give a damn."

"Remorse doesn't make what I did any better."

"You're asking me to help you punish yourself for doing your job. I'm not going to do that. If you want to self-flagellate, be my guest. I won't help you in that endeavor," Killian tells her, resolute. "Gold killed Milah. To divert any of the blame off him is a disgrace to her bloody memory."

The fight goes out of her, then. She bites her lip as she visibly deflates, unsure of how to reply.

"I do have one question, though. Why did you decide to tell me all of this, now?" he inquires, turning his head to face her after a beat of silence. "Granted, I'm not complaining about the company, but…"

"I didn't want to become my mother," she mutters into her glass, the guilt and alcohol driving her to admit what she ordinarily wouldn't. "She's a horrible human being and sometimes I remind myself of her way too goddamn much. I came here because she doesn't take responsibility for her actions, not really. I wanted to do the opposite of that."

Killian tilts his head, contemplatively. "Why do you hate your mother so much?"

Emma scoffs, turning to face him with a scowl. "What are you, my shrink?"

He only shrugs his shoulders, looking completely unbothered by her display of aggression. "Just trying to be a good listener, Swan."

"Fine. I'd describe it less as hate and more of innate understanding of the fact that she lacks any sort of moral compass," Emma grimaces, folding her arms around herself. She sighs heavily, frowning and studying the patterns in the wood of his coffee table just so she can - in some way - mentally escape the exchange. The attempt at occupying her mind doesn't provide much solace. "Not that I'm in much of a position to talk nowadays, but still."

There's a pause between the two of them, for a moment. Emma can only hold her breath and hope Killian doesn't wake up and decide that he doesn't want the woman who played a part in his girlfriend's death in his home. It's what any reasonable person would do. She's just surprised it's taking him this long.

(It's what _she_ would do, isn't it? Slam the door in their face and never look back? Not invite the person in and tell them to make themselves at home, the home the person she loved could have been in if they weren't busy being dead.)

"Your moral compass seems relatively intact to me," Killian comments idly, gaze focused on her.

"That's a hell of a conclusion to draw about a woman you've only met twice," Emma mutters derisively. "What, trespassing and confessions of guilt great testimonials for you?"

"You accept responsibilities that aren't yours and fight for justice for women you don't know," he amends wryly. "I find that fairly respectable. More so than my pursuit for revenge, at any rate."

"Now who's self flagellating?"

He pauses before answering, swallowing hard. "You may have taken the pictures, but I was the one who got her in that situation in the first place."

Emma groans in exasperation."Of course. That's why you're not pissed at me - you're too busy being pissed at yourself. That's a new level of sad, you know. You made a woman in a miserable situation happier. I'll be sure to notify the police for this horrific crime."

"I hope so on the first," he exhales, taking his first sip of rum of the night. "On the second, I think I've done enough stealing in my youth to be sure the police aren't endeared to me."

"Yeah, well… I used to be a cop," Emma starts, rolling her eyes. "Believe it or not. Obviously I'm not the best example, but I was in prison for stealing watches, before that. There's hope for you, yet."

She almost expects him to laugh, but he just looks at her thoughtfully. "I can see it."

"The prison or the cop part?"

"Ah, both," he grins, dimples flashing.

Emma can't help give him a small grin in return, shaking her head. The smile fades quickly, though, as she ponders the girl who sat behind those bars for nine months and the shitty circumstances - the trap of her own making - that got her there. That only leads her to think about the second variation - _Emma 2.0, Now With More Wide Eyed Idealism!_ \- and the similar shitty circumstances that that one entailed.

(And then there's _Emma 3.0, Now With More Misery and Cynicism!_ )

"The first was...a guy was involved, but the second I'm almost more ashamed of. I wanted to make the world a better place and all that shit," she explains derisively, not sure whether or not she hates the girl she used to be or envies her.

(It likely comes down to a combination of the two.)

Emma swallows, hard, and tries to make what she says next sound more flippant than it is. "Anyway, I did what I never should have done and fell in love with my partner, Graham. One of the nicest men I'd ever met in my life and...I never felt loved like I did with him. He was killed in the crossfire of another police officer. They were trailing a suspect, Graham saw he was an unarmed kid and tried to warn Arthur not to shoot, and…"

"He shot anyway, killing the other cop," Killian finishes, grimly. "Aye, I believe I heard the story on the news."

"I don't know if you heard this part, though," Emma mutters, eyes focusing on that same patch of wood and thumb running over the top of her glass absentmindedly. Her mouth sets into a hard line. "Arthur's defense attorney? Ingrid Swan. The best lawyer money can buy. She also happens to be my mother. You can figure out the rest."

"Your mother was the defense lawyer for the man that murdered your boyfriend," he summarizes, sounding repulsed.

"Arthur Tolemac didn't get so much as a misdemeanor charge," Emma replies darkly. "Tragic mistake in the line of duty. As I heard mommy dearest say for hours on end in the trail: _Who knows what the kid had in his pocket? Why was Officer Humbert behaving so recklessly as to walk in front of a pointed gun? Does this town need to lose any more police officers?_ "

Kilian sighs. "Then they lost you."

Emma snorts derisively. "At least when you're a private detective, you expect shitty human beings. When you're a cop, they sell you bullshit like ' _honor_ ' and ' _dignity_ '. I don't need either of those for this."

"And yet you have them nonetheless," Killian points out, softly. He's been remarkably understanding for someone in his position, all warm and inviting and knowing. Her eyes narrow.

"I just told you not even half an hour ago that my investigation of your girlfriend's affair got her killed and you're saying I have _honor_ ," Emma scoffs, taking another long sip of her drink.

"As I said, Gold killed Milah. Not you," Killian corrects sharply. "Stop blaming yourself for this."

Emma sighs before giving him a caustic laugh. It sounds as jagged as she feels. "I _still_ don't think you understand me when I say I sent Gold pictures of you and Milah going at it for money."

He rakes his hand through his hair in irritation. "The point is, love, that despite your rough exterior, you've shown more dignity and honor to Gold's victims than anyone. Even to the point where you try to assume some of the blame for the fate that befalls them."

"Don't worry," Emma intones duly, sensing his intentions. He's not lying, sure, but he could have ulterior motives in this. No matter his assurances, it's still hard to believe that he isn't the least bit bothered. "You don't have to justify having a thing for the reason your girlfriend is dead to me and dress it up as praising heroism. I'm not in a position to judge."

It's a low blow, maybe, and an assumption, definitely. But she didn't come here to get all buddy-buddy with him and swap stories. At this point, Emma isn't really sure what she came here for.

"There it is again," he replies lightly, seemingly undeterred by her sharp appraisal, "the self-loathing. I'm familiar with the concept, truthfully. Had plenty of it to go around after Milah's death. After what happened with my brother, too."

Emma raises her eyebrows. "You have a brother?"

"Had," he corrects, "Died while serving overseas. I was with him. Didn't take it well."

Emma frowns, recognizing his flippant tone for what it is - a false armor. She of all people can get that. "I can't imagine you did. I mean... if I lost my brother I'd-"

"You have a brother?" he asks, echoing her earlier question with a grin.

She nods, letting him redirect the conversation for now. It's another habit she's familiar with. "Yup. David Nolan."

"The man running for sheriff?"

"That's the one."

Killian cocks his head to the side in contemplation, eyes studying her. "It makes sense."

There that line is again.

Emma flashes him a disbelieving look. "Makes sense, how?"

"The savior complex," he gestures to her, "must be genetic."

"Hey!" she elbows him, more playful than offended. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He only chuckles in response. "It means that as much as you pretend not to give a damn, you care. You care a lot. You like to think you care too much, which would explain the apathetic, tough act."

Emma's lips twist into a frown. "Thanks for the analysis, doctor. Ever think that I might just not give a shit?"

"Yes, because someone who didn't give a damn would be driven to guilt for just doing her job," he replies, sarcastically. "Makes perfect sense. As much as I would like to relive this argument again, I'm going to tell you one last time - what happened was not your fault, Swan."

"Yeah, well," she mutters. "You're not one to talk, you know."

Killian raises his eyebrows. "How so?"

"As much as you dress your revenge up as proof you're this dark, broody hulk - you give a shit too. You wouldn't let a woman who told you she's trying to get justice for a poor teenaged girl see your dead ex-girlfriend and all of your tragic backstory just because she was hot. You wanted to help," she explains, voice growing softer as she continues. "And you did. You helped."

The corners of his lips twitch. "How do you know it wasn't really just because I fancied you, as you put it?"

Emma nudges his shoulder with hers. "Now who's acting tough? What were you saying about your brother?"

"You expose a man like that and expect him to continue with more of his - as you so eloquently put it - tragic backstory?"

She shrugs. "I told you mine. That's rare for me, you know."

"Then it's only fair for me to repay you," he finishes the thought. "My brother and I were in the navy. He was killed and I was dishonorably discharged. Turns out they don't take insubordination lightly. And I didn't take the military's callousness when it came to casualties lightly, either. From my brother to the people that got caught in the crossfire."

Emma frowns. "How did he die?"

Killian stares at the wall, steadily. "Being a bloody hero. Didn't believe me when I told him that our commander was trying to seize chemical weapons to use in the region we were stationed in. Didn't believe the civilians pleading with him to see that, more like. He tried to prove to me that they weren't harmful and killed himself with a stockpile of sarin gas. I only survived because I wasn't exposed directly."

"Jesus," Emma murmurs sympathetically. "I'm so sorry."

He shakes his head. "The worst part is - to this day - the damn navy can't acknowledge what happened. I can only guess at what they're doing now."

Emma exhales, a little shakily. "Here's a lighter question - if we're continuing this pattern of spilling our guts out - what do you do when you're not stalking Gold?"

Killian scoffs. "That's lighter?"

"In comparison to that?" Emma replies, raising her eyebrows. "Yeah."

"I couldn't get much in the way of job interviews after being dishonorably discharged and sporting only one hand after a bombing that took it not long before my brother passed." Killian shrugs. "I work down at the docks. Find it a tad comforting to be out by the ocean, I'm so habituated to the rocking underneath my feet."

"I've always liked the water," Emma murmurs.

"Yeah?" he asks, looking over to her. "Maybe I'll take you out on my boat, sometime."

Emma rolls her eyes. "Is that your pickup line?"

"No, that's my genuine offer," he replies with a teasing grin.

Pretty soon, Emma even forgets why she came here in the first place.

-/-

It's a few drinks and stories later that Killian insists on her crashing on his couch, citing how much she's drank tonight and how much she's already showing signs of sleepiness (including her head drooping onto his shoulder at some point during their conversation, which he accepted in stride). Emma huffs and puffs about it, but it doesn't bother her too much. It isn't that she doesn't trust him. It's that she's already done enough to fuck up this guy's life, whether he wants to admit it or not. Emma doesn't need to compound that by hogging his furniture.

Nevertheless, she ends up curled up on the couch. She can hear Killian in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and whatever the hell else is part of his bedtime routine. Emma tries, valiantly, to fall asleep. She fails miserably, even with the alcohol in her system.

That doesn't mean she'll show that when Killian pads his way back into the living room, though.

Emma does her best to keep her breathing even and her fidgeting limited. It's easier to pretend to be asleep. She's said enough, exposed enough as it is. She hears his footsteps go in the other direction and almost lets out a sigh of relief.

She hears him come back in her direction, though, and she has to resist the urge to crinkle her face in confusion. She feels something warm and soft around her, a few seconds later, covering her. A blanket, she surmises.

"Sleep well, Swan," he murmurs, pressing her hair out of her face in a way that she would almost describe as tender. "You'll need the rest with all the days you'll be saving."

Emma hopes he'll take her abrupt exhale of breath as snoring instead of a muffled laugh.

Killian walks away after that, so she assumes he has.

A part of her considers following him, approaching him about his affectionate gestures and seeing where the hell that leads her.

(Preferably - his bed. Unresolved sexual tension is stressful, believe it or not.)

Then another part of her - the largest part - is still stuck on how fucked up she is in staying the night at a man's apartment just hours after she came to in a destructive heap of self hatred over what she did to his dead girlfriend. It's a mouthful. But it's a mouthful that keeps her feeling guilty as hell.

Emma is better off keeping him at a distance. For both of their sakes.

She falls asleep shortly afterwards, successfully preventing her from making any unwise decisions.

-/-

The sound of loud vibrations wakes her up. Emma groans, still curled up on the couch and sunlight filling her vision. She huddles further into the cushions and wraps the afgan around her body a little tighter.

But the noises are endless.

She finally gives in, grasping for her phone. Her nightstand seems further from her than usual, but it wouldn't be the first time she's knocked things over when she was -

Emma pauses, looking at her surroundings for a minute.

This isn't her apartment. It's Killian's.

She grabs her phone from the coffee table in realization.

Four missed calls from Mary Margaret.

Emma reads the notifications blurrily, then curses when once she's able to make out the words through her sleep-hazed fog. Emma presses the name of her sister-in-law to call her back, rubbing at her eyes and sitting up on the couch.

Mary Margaret picks up after only a couple of rings. "Emma?"

"Hey," she mumbles, a little abashed. Her mouth feels like cotton. She must have been asleep for a while.

"I've been trying to call you for hours now," Mary Margaret accuses, sounding a little exasperated, "I even showed up at your apartment, your office...I didn't get an answer."

"I was asleep," Emma replies a little curtly. It's the truth, after all. She doesn't have to disclose where she was sleeping.

"It's three in the afternoon."

Emma frowns, looking down at her phone to check the time. Sure enough, Mary Margaret isn't lying.

Damn.

"I had a long night and slept like the dead," Emma explains. Of all the times for Mary Margaret to choose to get inquisitive, it _would be_ now.

"Swan?" Killian calls, opening the door to his apartment with a few bags in his hands.

Emma reflexively puts a finger up to silence him, cursing his timing.

"Oh," Mary Margaret says, sounding amused. "Now I get it."

"It's the mailman," Emma attempts. Killian pouts exaggeratedly, setting the bags on top of his coffee table.

Judging by the way Mary Margaret laughs on the other end of the line, she's not buying it. "I'll quiz you over your love life later, Emma. I think we have bigger issues at hand. Meet me at my apartment whenever you're able to...pull yourself away."

"Shut up," Emma mutters. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Duty calls?" Killian asks, once she hangs up the phone. He's grinning, if that's any indication.

"Something like that." Emma replies. "Grocery shopping?"

Killian shrugs, pulling a bottle of aspirin and a small bottle orange juice out of one of the bags. "Figured you may be nursing a headache after the amount of drinking you did last night, love. I was going to make lunch, but seeing as you're on a tight schedule…"

Her mouth parts, unsure of how to respond to the gesture. "Killian, I… thank you. That's very... considerate of you."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Hardly, Swan."

She's about to retort when he presses the aspirin and juice into her hands. Her fingers touch his and - goddamn it - she has got to stop turning into such a wilting flower around this guy.

He presses a kiss to her temple in a gesture so familiar she can't help but lean into it. "Feel better. Go save the world."

"Aye, aye captain," she salutes on her way out the door.

(Emma only cringes after she's in the hallway of his apartment complex, at the comment and at being so cozy with someone she's only known for two days. Compile that with their fucked up background, and well -

_Go save the world? You'll need the rest with all the days you'll be saving?_

He's delusional if he thinks she's some kind of fucking hero, to be sure.

_Aye, aye captain?_

Where did that even come from?

She thumps her head against the steering wheel of her car, once she's inside.)

-/-

"What was so urgent that you had to call me over immediately?" Emma asks Mary Margaret in exasperation as soon she she steps through the door of the loft.

"Hang on," Mary Margaret mutters, fishing out her phone from her purse, "You need to see this."

A video is projected on the wall, showing a smug Arthur Tolemac waving to a crowd of reporters.

"Oh no," Emma groans, fearing what he's about to say. "Please tell me that isn't..."

Mary Margaret nods curtly.

"It's time we stood our ground for our principles, you see," Arthur announces, and Emma wishes she could punch this asshole apparition in the face. "This town needs to be secure. David Nolan wants us to cave into every politically correct complaint and for our department to be powerless. You want to be safe, right?"

An adoring crowd member shouts their agreement. Emma cringes.

"I'm not like David Nolan. I'll help protect you and put the good guys before the criminals. That's why I'm running for sheriff of this great town!"

Whooping cheers from the audience. A smiling, clapping Albert Spencer in the corner of the image.

Mary Margaret exhales heavily, turning it off. She looks at Emma, pointedly.

"I need a drink," Emma mutters, hand coming up to cover half of her face. "And David needs to kick his ass."

-/-

David only seems reinvigorated by the announcement when he comes home from work. He practically bounces into the loft as he greets the two of them.

"Um, David?" Emma prompts, raising an eyebrow. "Did you hear the news?"

"That Tolemac is running for sheriff? Yes, I did." David answers, seemingly just as unconcerned.

Mary Margaret and Emma share dubious looks.

"I thought you would be more pissed," Emma says, a little baffled.

"Me too," Mary Margaret adds, brow furrowed in concern. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm feeling fine," David reassures her, leaning down to kiss her. "I'm feeling absolutely, one hundred percent, fine."

"Yeah, you say that," Emma replies skeptically. "But I hear _'I'm screaming internally'_."

"This is exactly what I meant when I said I was running," David states, resolutely."It's what I meant when I said that Storybrooke needed better leadership. That I needed to run to make sure it got it. Now a damn near sociopathic murderer is running against me - I don't think motivation gets higher than that. It's me against him."

Emma frowns, "I guess I didn't really think of it that way."

Mary Margaret lets out a deep breath.

-/-

Emma is stuck alone with her thoughts that night. After leaving David and his surreal reaction to running against Arthur, she finishes up some bail bonds work, watches some TV, and attempts to fall asleep.

_'Attempts'_ being the key word.

She counts sheep. She drinks warm milk. She imagines that she's sinking into her mattress and all it does is give her back pains when she thinks about how shitty the springs are. It's probably her fault for sleeping in so late.

Which leads to to other thoughts. Unwise thoughts, ones she does not need to be having.

And that leads to her texting Killian, against her best judgement.

_'It's Emma'_ is all she sends.

It turns out that's all she needs to send. A few minutes later, her phone is ringing.

"Is this the part where you tell me how you got my phone number thanks to your sleuthing skills?" his accented voice filters over the line.

"Yellowpages," Emma deadpans. "They've had cell phone numbers for years now, Jones. I think they might put me and my magnifying glass out of business."

He laughs.

"I hear some git named Arthur is running against your brother."

"Yeah, you would think they would have some rule barring people accused of murder from running."

"That would cut candidates everywhere by at least 50%," Killian snarks.

"You joke, but that might not be far from the truth."

"Who said I was joking?"

Emma groans. "Fair enough. David should have an easy time beating him, at any rate. How hard is it going to be to run a campaign against someone with 24 different reports of use of excessive force? I can see the flyers now - a vote for Tolemac is a vote for shitty policing for every hour of your day."

"We might make a politician out of you yet, Swan."

She rolls her eyes, sitting up against her headboard. "Exactly what I left a corrupt career for - politics."

"You joke, but I'd vote for you." Killian says, sounding sincere.

He really must enjoy making this difficult for her. She laughs. "Two minutes into a call is a little early for flattery, don't you think?"

"When it comes to you?" he questions, and she can almost see his eyebrow edging its way up his forehead. "Never."

"Please," she replies dismissively. "Anyway - how has your day been? Sorry I slept through about half of it."

He hums. "No worries, Swan. I left you a note when I left for work, but by the time I came back you were still out cold."

"You went through a full workday when I slept on your couch," Emma mutters. "I am _so_ productive."

"You're quite alright, Swan. I imagine you had a long day beforehand."

"What makes you say that?" Emma replies, more than a little sarcastic. "The emotional breakdown or the twelve hour nap I took?"

"A little bit of both," he replies easily. "Speaking of, shouldn't you be asleep?"

Emma glances to the clock. It's 12:30 AM. She sighs.

"I'm keeping you up, aren't I?"

"Tomorrow is my day off, Swan, you're fine."

"In that case," she trails off. The words are out of her mouth before she can think better of them. "I think I owe you a drink - I must have drank you out of a shit ton of expensive rum. All I have is cheap liquor, but..."

This is a stupid idea.

One he consents to, easily.

-/-

It could have gone worse.

Killian shows up at her doorstep with his typical swagger, but he keeps it entirely civil. It's storming - _thundersnowing_ , in true Maine fashion - and Killian is covered in the flakes and she feels terrible for suggesting he come over without realizing the goddamn weather and shit, she just has to get him warm. He makes a fuss when she pulls out her comforter and a space heater she keeps on hand, but Killian eventually accepts it thanks to her insistence.

They don't even drink, for whatever reason it seems they don't get around to it. They just talk.

He asks her about the last non-Gold related case she worked. Emma listens as he explains the ring he wears around his neck (belonged to his brother, as it turns out). Killian talks about growing up an orphan with his brother and Emma reveals some stories about some of her shittier foster families.

"So," she sighs after wrapping up the tale of the last foster mom she had before Ingrid, the one that was more preoccupied with making Emma a doll than treating her like a human being, "that might help explain how screwed up I am. The assortment of shitty foster stories."

"We're not just the sum of our pasts, Swan," he murmurs, staring at her contemplatively. "Our decisions for the future also play their part."

"I guess all we can do is hope that that's true," Emma says after a beat, her eyes on him, "and hope that our future decision making is as sound as it can be."

Killian grins, at that. "I suppose that we should."

They're both under her comforter, sitting only millimeters apart on the couch. His body heat is radiating towards her and he still has that stupid smile on his face. Her eyes flick to his lips, against her better judgement, and he starts leaning towards her until she can feel his breath on her face.

He keeps on getting closer and closer, grin eventually fading into a more serious, subdued expression that Emma can't decipher.

Emma has always been much better at pushing people away than pulling them closer.

"I should get to bed. I have… I should go to bed," she murmurs finally, turning her face in the other direction.

He nods in understanding, pulling away.

"Aye, that's likely the right call, Swan," he replies, quiet and soft.

It's almost hard to push him away when he's so fucking understanding.

He turns around to leave, grabbing his jacket off of the chair he'd set it on. With every step he takes, the panic rises in her throat. Why she's panicked, she honestly can't admit to herself.

Well, she _can_. That doesn't mean she wants to.

It has something to do with the fact that he comforted her after she confessed something as horrible as she did. That he offered his shoulder - literally, last night - to her when she talked about her mother and her boyfriend and all the goddamn trauma she _still_ can't unpack. He even offered bits of himself in exchange, things that she had a feeling didn't come any easier for him than it did her.

Emma moves to stand there for a moment, in the middle of her living room. Killian stills before opening the front door of her apartment to leave.

As if he's waiting for a moment, just to make sure.

Maybe she can just say - fuck it. The future can go to hell. She's already made a host of bad decisions. What's one more?

"Killian," she murmurs, his name barely audible. "You should stay."

He turns around to face her, hand resting on the frame of the door. "I should?"

"It's late. And it's storming," she rationalizes, wrapping her arms around herself, "and it's cold. You should stay here."

He just stares at her, in response, his eyes focused on hers. His grip on the doorframe tightens.

"No other reason?" he sounds almost strained.

Emma walks towards him, slow and measured. Her voice is a little stilted and more than a little low when she asks, "Should there be?"

He doesn't move a muscle. Killian's eyes are still on hers.

And then, it's like elastic snaps.

In one fluid (or not so fluid, given she's in too much of a hurry to have any finesse about this) movement her arms are around his neck and her lips are fixed on his. He moans - _actually fucking moans_ \- and she doesn't even have time to contemplate what a good kisser he is before he's lifting her up with one arm wrapped around her back and a hand under her ass to keep her hoisted up. She can feel the cool metal of the rings on his fingers through the denim of her jeans. Her legs, almost of their own volition, lock around the narrow expanse of his hips. One of her arms locks around his neck and the other grasps at his back.

(He really isn't all talk and no action, much to her relief.)

Emma only whines when his lips leave hers to trail down the base of her neck. After that, the whining turns into something else entirely.

"We should -" she begins, more than a little breathlessly.

Killian's eyebrows raise and he pauses right as he gets to the sweet spot on her neck. "Stop?"

"Fuck," Emma pants, frustrated, "No. I was trying to say-"

She's cut off by his lips on hers, again, desperate and greedy.

Not that she's really complaining. For a few seconds, Emma even forgets what she was trying to say before being reminded of it thanks to the tugging in her stomach.

"Bed," she finally gets out, gasping out the word when their lips are far apart enough for her to say it.

Killian nods, carrying her in that direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year! And again, feedback means the entire universe to me, so if you'd drop in below with your thoughts I'd be so, so happy.


	5. win, lose, or die trying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The first thing I'd like to do is to thank you guys so much for the tremendous feedback you've given me! It honestly means the world to me and I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. Thank you so much for reading.

When she wakes up, they're cuddling.

One of Killian's arms is draped over her body and the other one is under her head, his leg between hers. His nose is buried in the base of her neck and Emma idly notices that their hands are interlocked.

Emma doesn't do this often. Or ever, really.

The cuddling, at least, not the one night stands. The one night stands are the bulk of her love life - if you could even call it that. She scratched an itch and moved on. There were few exceptions.

But she's never cuddled with a one night stand. Usually either she or them are already tugging on their pants and heading out the door. The situation is so surreal to her that she eyes where her jeans wound up (over a lamp? really?) thoughtfully. It's her own apartment, it's not like she can up and leave it behind forever. Emma could, however, transfer to the couch and sleep there.

Her lumpy, uncomfortable couch. She doesn't want to grab blankets or pillows and risk disturbing him, either.

Emma sighs, eyeing the clock in the corner of the room.

4:23 A.M.

Add that to the fact that he's like a human space heater and Emma is freezing, it's hard for her to justify leaving. Emma grips his hand just a little tighter, comforted at least by the fact he's asleep and won't know about her moment of weakness.

Killian nestles ever further into her in his sleep. Emma can't deny a part of her feels more at peace than it has in a while.

-/-

When she wakes up again, she's alone. Which is probably for the best, all things considered. This is what she's used to. Hell, this is what Emma is _good at_. One night and move on is her default model for spending the night with a man or woman. She should be thanking whatever higher power that existed they finally resolved their uncomfortable sexual tension, now she never has to worry about him again.

It stings a little, nonetheless. As much as she would pretend otherwise. She doesn't participate in late night confessions with her one night stands, doesn't cuddle with them after. Killian - whether she likes it or not - was different.

But it's whatever. Variety and all that, she can't relive the same encounters over and over again. What she can do - _what she excels at_ \- is continuing the same pattern of never seeing them again.

Emma is still rolling the thought around in her head when she hears something clatter in the kitchen.

When she tugs on a long shirt and goes to investigate the sound, sure enough, Killian is stationed at the stove.

"I didn't get the opportunity to make you lunch yesterday," Killian says, by way of explanation. Emma wonders where the hell he found an apron in her apartment that's currently draped over his body. Mary Margaret likely snuck it in with the oven mitts last year. "So I figured breakfast would be a good way to make it up to you."

She can't hold back the grin on her face, for all her efforts. "What, trying to win a woman over through her stomach? Smart move, Jones."

"That's my goal," He matches her smile, easily and broadly, crowding her at the corner of her kitchen's island and lifting his palm to cup the side of her face. "Good morning, Swan."

It shouldn't be this easy, and yet it is.

-/-

Emma tears herself away from round two (yeah, _another_ uncommon event for her) a little reluctantly when Ingrid texts her.

Emma almost ignores her. She really gets close to doing it, with Killian trailing kisses down her neck on her kitchen counter and the chirping alerting her to a text message so quiet she almost doesn't hear it.

Then Killian, terrible influence that he is, asks her if she wants to check it and - well - when she reads something along the lines of _'We need to talk ASAP'_ , and the person who's tugging down her shirt is just as invested in the case it's concerned with, it's not like she has much of a choice.

"It better be important," Emma announces when she walks into Ingrid's office, tugging her coat and scarf off.

"Is that a hickey?" Ingrid asks, eyes narrowing on Emma's neck.

Emma curses her decision to take off her scarf. Damn Ingrid's desire to have her office sweltering all the time.

"No," Emma replies defensively, moving to cover the offensive mark. "It's a bruise. I burned myself with a curling iron this morning."

Ingrid narrows her eyes. "Your hair isn't curled."

"I showered after I curled my hair."

"Why?"

"I..spilled coffee on myself," Emma explains, unconvincingly. "Can you just answer my initial question?"

Ingrid sighs from behind her desk. "I got into contact with Victor Whale. He says he'll testify."

"Good," Emma exhales.

"And I wired the payment into your bank account. You can do whatever the hell you want with the money, but it's still yours."

Emma frowns, crossing her arms. "Okay, fine."

"I've never seen someone to reluctant to get paid." Ingrid says warily.

"And I've never met someone so anxious for it despite being rich as hell already," Emma counters easily. "Text me when something important happens, _actually_ important."

And just like that, things start to settle down for a little while.

-/-

The next few weeks go by in what feels like a blink. She helps David campaign, spends some time tracking bail jumpers, helps David campaign, wakes up next to Killian a few more times, and helps David campaign.

Has she mentioned how she's been helping David campaign?

Emma hates it. Honestly, she does. If there's anything that feels more like pulling teeth to her, it's cozying up to strangers and trying to get them to do what she wants without blackmail, snarky comments, or vaguely concealed threats.

The only thing that might make her feel shittier is yoga. Meditating on her thoughts is still a step lower than flashing pearly smiles at people who come to rallies. Granted, Mary Margaret, Elsa, Marian, and Lancelot took over "interaction duty" after she told a woman who, very nasally, informed her that she was voting for Tolemac where to shove a campaign sign. But to be fair, who wouldn't in her position?

That's why she's mainly regulated to mailing lists (that no one reads anymore, _honestly_ ) and _Nolan for Sheriff_ yard signs. Go, her.

Killian is even helpful when it comes to this stuff, to her surprise. After Emma extracted herself from his bed for the third time in a row at an ungodly early hour muttering something about campaign flyers, he decided to join her on some of her routes around town.

She feels like a fucking thirteen year old assigned to newspaper delivery. But with Killian walking around with her, quipping about Tolemac's terrible ads in her ear ( _"What kind of prat comes up with 'Tolemac has your back?'"_ ) and teasing her about how high he can post the stupid flyers ( _"You're so short it's endearing, love."_ ) it feels a little less so.

That, and the sex afterwards is pretty stellar.

(Really stellar.)

The two of them seem to be at a good place, for now. It's not in her typical comfort zone of one night stand, but it works well enough. He's nice to look at, makes great food, and the two of them seem to be on a similar wavelength.

Plus, it's not like they're dating.

Now that would be something that Emma knows wouldn't work out. No matter what comments Elsa may have made when she spotted Killian with Emma putting up yard signs (' _Congratulations on the new hot boyfriend, Emma, he looks like a keeper.'_ ), she knows this to be the truth.

And given that he hasn't tried to start any uncomfortable _'what are we?'_ conversations, he must be thinking the same thing, which she's thankful for.

Emma is even more thankful to finally see the end of campaigning - God awful useless tool of democracy it is - and nearly cheers when she sees the clock flashing the morning of election day.

It's not over, but it's pretty damn close.

The noise of the alarm wakes Killian, who jostles awake around her with his nose buried in her hair and his hand around hers.

It seems his thoughts are the same as hers.

"Election day," he rasps, his voice tinged with sleep.

She groans. "I don't want to get up."

"And I don't want you to sleep through your brother's election," he replies matter-of-factly, trailing his lips along her shoulder. "Wake up."

"Ugh," she says, turning on her back. Killian props himself up on his right hand beside her, his left arm resting on her stomach. "Don't remind me of my responsibilities first thing in the morning. That's the worst."

He chuckles. "The worst? The absolute worst? Are you positive?"

"One hundred percent," she mutters into her pillow, already halfway back asleep.

Killian sighs. "Don't think I won't carry you into the shower."

Emma cracks one eye open. "Again?"

"Again," he confirms.

She sighs and sits up. "It's your fault for keeping me up, you know."

"As I recall, it was more of us keeping each other up. And besides, you sleep like the dead either way," he replies, moving to grab one of the pairs of pants he's left at her place.

(They are seriously not dating, she swears.)

"Not all of us can be annoyingly alert morning people like you." she chides playfully.

Killian laughs. "I also don't recall you being annoyed last night."

"You brought Chinese food. I'm weak when it comes to Chinese food."

"I'm sure that's the reason."

"Can't have your ego getting too big," she teases, still seated on the bed.

"I'm afraid it's too late for that."

"Shit," Emma mutters, tugging a tank top on, "I think I left my good jeans at your place."

"Mm," he leans in to kiss her, smiling against her lips, "Don't worry. They should be in my car. I figured you'd want them back."

"What would I do without you?" she asks with a grin, eyes sparkling as they part.

"Wear the ones riddled with holes that you were wearing earlier?" he supplies helpfully, "Which wouldn't have been the best for your brother's victory speech, to be fair, but they would have worked nonetheless. So long as you didn't wear the ones with-"

"The hole in the crotch?" she finishes. "Yeah, _thanks_ for that, by the way."

Killian raises an eyebrow as he buttons up his shirt. "Do you want me to repeat what you said to me when that happened?"

"Not necessary," Emma says quickly, searching her closet for a sweater that looks warm. "Just grab the jeans from your car."

"As you wish," Killian replies with an exaggerated bow, kissing her cheek when he makes his way back up. "I'll be right back."

Emma smiles fondly, watching him as he leaves.

Maybe things are getting a little bit better.

-/-

After last minute campaigning and attempts to get people out to vote, she joins Mary Margaret and David back at the loft to watch the results of the election filter in.

(Lancelot, Marian, Elsa, and Killian all have to head back to their respective jobs, otherwise they'd be joining them.)

David is pacing so much Emma has to tease him about putting holes in the floorboard.

He doesn't think it's that funny.

Mary Margaret is on the phone nonstop, fully committed to finishing the job and getting as many people as possible out to vote before the polls close.

David is supremely stressed, but Emma - for once- isn't worried. This thing should be in the bag for him.

Storybrooke might finally become just a little bit better.

-/-

The results of the sheriff election come in a few hours later. It isn't even close.

David Nolan: 46%

Arthur Tolemac: 54%

If there's anything that fate likes to do, it's to make her look like an idiot and fuck her over as much as possible.

David is taking it pretty well, all things considered. He's doing better than her, at any rate.

"People suck and don't deserve saving," Emma comments darkly, staring up at the ceiling from her sprawl on the couch. Mary Margaret is out, thanking supporters and comforting their friends, and the two of them have been like this for the last hour ever since the results were announced. "I can't even understand this."

"I can," David comments, quietly. "People like to feel secure, even if it's false. It's easier to blame other people than acknowledge a bigger problem."

Emma thumps her head against the armrest.

"It's the same as why people go to see Gold," he adds, his tone still just as calm and composed. She doesn't know how he does it. "Fear is more powerful than a lot of things, especially fear of losing the people you love."

She ponders that, for a minute.

"You should quit," Emma tells him with a groan. "Leave the force. Quit and never look back."

"Like you?"

The question isn't stated accusingly, but it stings all the same.

Emma scoffs derisively. "All I ever seem to do is look back. You're better than that."

"I need to stay on the force," David says, as if there's not even an argument to be had over it. "Now more than ever, if Arthur is sherriff."

Emma sits up, at that. "He's going to make your life a living hell. You know that, right?"

David sighs. "Whatever he does to me is nothing in comparison to what he'll do to people's families if he continues like this."

"What? So you can take a bullet like Graham did?" she asks, bordering on hysterical, "Are you _serious_?"

He remains undeterred. "I took an oath to serve and protect."

"Yeah, not an oath to kill yourself, which you're guaranteeing working alongside a lunatic like Tolemac."

"Emma -"

"No," she exclaims, standing. Emma feels tears clouding her vision, she's so angry. "You don't get to do this, David. You don't. You have people who love you. You have people who can't lose you. I don't want the only way I'm ever able to see you again to be some fucked up hologram!"

David hangs his head, solemnly. "You know I can't back down from this, Emma."

Emma scoffs, twisting her arms around herself in a weak attempt at protection. "Fine. Be my guest. Just don't expect me to watch you kill yourself."

She storms out of the loft without another word, ignoring David's protests and slamming the door behind her. Emma lets herself cry when she gets in her car, but not until then.

-/-

"This is about more than just David." Elsa points out, when Emma agrees to meet her at her apartment. Maybe it's the social worker in Elsa that makes her so desperate to mend relationships, but Emma isn't in a hurry. "You realize that, right?"

"Of course I realize that. I know that shit is going to hit the fan for more people than just David, alright? But that doesn't mean I'm going to sit there and watch him destroy himself for some misguided idea of justice."

"Then what happens if David leaves? What happens to this town?" Elsa presses, "What happens when David isn't there to save the day and someone gets killed?"

"Well, then," Emma answers harshly, "at least I know it's not my brother."

"And what do you think the guilt what do to him? What do you think the guilt would do to _you_? The families of the people whose lives get ruined by people like Tolemac, what happens to them?"

Emma bites her lip. "I don't have time to be worried about everyone else's family, Elsa, I'm pretty fucking preoccupied worrying about you guys already."

Elsa sighs and her disappointment is tangible. "Funny, I heard Ingrid say something similar once."

Emma flinches. "Comparing me to my mother, now?"

"This is bigger than us," Elsa reminds her of, instead of answering the question. "You know that. I know you, Emma, and underneath all that fear and anger is someone who still wants to save everyone."

"That's where you're wrong," Emma answers cooly. "I learned my lesson last year. I _can't_ save everyone. Hell, I can't even save the people I care about the most."

"But you're still trying," Elsa comments, folding her arms over her chest. "Because that's who you are. Don't let these...jerks take that from you. Don't let fear take that from you."

"'Fear is more powerful than a lot of things,'" Emma quips dispassionately, quoting a line from her last, disastrous conversation with David.

"Yeah, well," Elsa hums, "it's still not more powerful than you are."

Elsa's unwavering faith in her would be heartwarming if it weren't so obviously misguided.

-/-

Killian is the next to offer his (unsolicited) advice.

"You push the people you love away and you learn to regret it," Killian intones, staring into the bottom of his glass as if it holds all the memories that are fogging his mind. They're at her dining table and she's several steps beyond anxious. "Take it from me."

"It's better this way," Emma tells him, though she's mainly reassuring herself. "All I ever seem to accomplish by being around people is getting them hurt worse."

"That's a lot of responsibility to assume for yourself, Emma," he murmurs, setting the tumbler down. "You need to acknowledge that people make their own decisions, knowing full well the consequences."

"Decisions that get them killed?" Emma challenges defensively. "And how do you think the people that don't stop them feel when they're lowering their body in a coffin?"

A tense pause passes between the two of them. Killian looks like he's studying patterns of the wood in her dining table and Emma bounces her leg anxiously, unable to get the sight of Graham's dead body out of her head.

"I should tell you something," he says, quietly.

"What?" Emma asks, looking up to meet his eyes. His are still pinned to the table. "Killian, look at me. Tell me what the hell is going on."

"I talked to Gold a few hours ago," he begins, tone deceptively conversational. "He called me."

Emma pales. "No. No, you didn't. Killian, please tell me you're fucking with me right now."

He shakes his head. "He told me he'd put up with my nosing about for long enough. Was explicit about not wanting to see my face there again."

She puts her head in her hands. "What the hell, Killian?"

"You know I won't stop until I get enough evidence tying him to all of this, Emma."

"All of what?" she cries, hands pressing flat against the table with a loud thump. "The people he's killed? What, you want your name added to the list?"

"He won't kill me if he gets to see me suffer," Killian retorts.

"Your life hangs in the balance of the whims of a psychopath," Emma corrects him, so angry she's shaking. "And I get to add your name to the list of people I already have to fucking worry about. I have enough people in the crosshairs of guns pointed at _me_."

"You don't think I know that?" he nearly yells, his hand coming up to tug at his hair. "Every damn day, you don't think I know you have a target on your back thanks to Gold or Tolemac or one of those bail jumpers who see you as the only thing between them and an escape? I'm not worried about me, Emma, I'm worried for you. If Gold catches wind of you investigating I'm not sure he'll be as generous."

"Yeah, well," she replies derisively, "my job is done and I'm unscathed. You don't need to be sulking around Gold's headquarters and nearly getting yourself fucking killed."

"He wants us constantly in fear, Swan, and you're playing right into his hands."

"I'm playing into his hands," Emma repeats, scoffing is disbelief. "Yeah, sure. If that means not watching the people I care about get killed, then I guess I fucking am. I'm selfish and I'm self-preserving, just like my goddamn mother."

He deflates at this train of thought, trying to reach for her hand to reassure her, comfort her. She snatches it away from him, raw and pissed off. "Emma, please…"

"You should go," Emma says, abruptly. A tear falls down her face as she stands up, wrapping her arms around her waist as if they're the only thing keeping her together. "You should leave."

Killian looks at her for a moment, looking for any crack in her resolve, any hint that she may be willing to put this aside and move forward.

He must not find any, given he stands up shortly after.

"Whatever you need, Swan," he hums quietly, thumbing away the tear on her face, "Take all the time you need."

He leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Emma swallows, hard.

She doesn't need any more names on the list of people she's gotten killed. That's not fear. That's common fucking sense.

-/-

It's later that night - after too much introspection - that Emma does what any sane person would do.

She breaks into her mother's office and waits.

Ingrid doesn't even seem phased when she walks into the room to see Emma slouching in the chair behind her desk.

"You know, you used to do that when you were in the sixth grade. Sit in that chair and play lawyer," Ingrid says, sounding wistful. "I've always kept that chair because of that. I've had to repair the thing God knows how many times, but I always kept that chair."

A beat of silence passes between the two of them. Emma just stares blankly at the desk. Ingrid stares at Emma. It's an uncomfortable moment.

"Why did you do it?" Emma asks, uncharacteristically morose. "Why did you defend him? You didn't have to take the case."

"Yes," Ingrid states, firmly. "I did."

Emma's expression sours. "Explain to me how that works."

"If Albert lost his favorite detective, he'd take it out on you and David. You'd both be fired in a heartbeat."

Somehow, the explanation makes it even worse.

"I quit after that trial and you and I both know David would have gladly resigned if it meant Arthur got what he deserved," Emma barks out.

"Obviously, in retrospect I would have done things differently," Ingrid replies coolly, "but I didn't. And I can't take that back."

Emma can only sneer at her. "You're repulsive."

"I'm your mother," Ingrid replies sharply. "I was trying to do what was best for my kids. You wouldn't understand that."

Emma feels like she's been punched in the gut. Of all the shitty things her mother has done or said, using _that_ against her is something painfully new. "That's a low blow, even for you."

A flash of regret flashes on Ingrid's face. "You know I didn't mean it like that."

"Do I?" Emma challenges, "After all that you've proven you're capable of?"

All Ingrid can do is stay silent.

"David is going to end up killing himself trying to atone for the bad shit _you've_ done," Emma seethes, pointing an accusing finger at Ingrid before grabbing her jacket and tugging it on. "And it's going to be a cold wake up call when you realize you have no one to blame but yourself. I hope you're ready for that."

-/-

One of the last things she expects on the doorstep of her office the next day is the eleven year old from Gold's.

She shouldn't be all that shocked, given how much life has been fucking her over lately.

"You're a private detective, right? Like in the movies?" the kid - Henry - asks, all wide eyed and curious.

Emma frowns. "Who let you walk in this neighborhood alone, again? This isn't exactly the nice part of town."

Henry shrugs. "It never is in the movies."

"Yeah, well, in the movies the good guys usually don't get very hurt. Something bad could happen here. Let me give you a ride home, kid, and please don't come back here."

"I need a private detective." Henry insists.

"You're eleven," Emma replies candidly, reaching for her coat. "You need the Harry Potter books and a juicebox."

"I want you to find my mom, okay?" he says, finally exasperated by her dismissals. "I need your help."

Emma pauses in the middle of winding her scarf. "Kid…"

"I don't even have to talk to her," he insists and her heart is starting to wear down for this poor kid. "I just want to know who she is."

"Maybe you don't want to find out."

"I do."

"Maybe we won't be able to find her."

"I bet you can."

"Maybe you're better off not knowing, Henry." Emma almost shouts the last sentence, raising her hands in frustration, "You want to know how long I've gone without knowing who gave me up? 28 years. You want to know how long I can wait to find out? 100 of them."

Henry frowns. "But you found a family, a good one."

Emma barks out a dark laugh. "No, I told you that to make you feel better. My mother and I hate each other and my brother is always off doing stupid sh- things. We can barely stand being around each other these days. Family is overrated, kid."

"You're wrong," Henry shakes his head. "Just because you fight with your family doesn't mean you don't love them. It means you love them a lot because you care about them so much. It beats what my foster parents do, which is to ignore me all the time."

"That's an idealistic way of looking at it," Emma snorts dismissively. "Look, kid. I don't believe in giving people false hope. So I'm not going to give you any. There are no happy endings in this world. You make the best out of what you have and you fight like hell to keep it - got it? There's your life lesson from me. Now let me take you home."

Henry stares at his shoes. "It's not my home."

"What?"

"It's not my home. It's just a house. It's not home."

Emma purses her lips. Then she sighs. A beat later she takes off her jacket and pulls out her laptop.

"Tell me everything you know about your birth mom, kid."

His face lights up.

She doesn't know if she's going to regret this or not. Right now she's leaning towards the regret outcome.

-/-

Emma is summoned once again to her mother's desk, much to her dismay. She briefly considers ignoring the text, but she's pissed off enough at the world that she feels like she can handle it.

"This better be important," Emma mutters when she walks into Ingrid's office.

"Your witness backed out," Ingrid accuses. "Victor Whale refuses to speak with me and he seems to have vanished without a trace."

Emma groans, hands coming to her temples. "Are you kidding me? I guess Whale is still just as much of a coward, but, vanished?"

Go fucking figure. Everything likes to fall apart at once.

"I need his testimony in this case, Emma," Ingrid grits out. "Accusations only matter if they're backed up and research is only trustworthy when you know the source of it."

"I recorded my conversation with Whale," Emma points out. "Can't you just use that?"

"Yes, I have the recordings of you cursing him out and him saying Gold gave him grants for research. Hardly hard-hitting evidence against the wealthiest man in this damn town."

"The financial records," Emma gestures to the desk, resisting the urge to pull her own hair out. "What about those? Gold is pumping a lot of money into local police unions, shady research firms…"

"And what about that is incriminating in the death of Sydney Boyd, Emma?"

"Can't you hire a psychologist to prove the link between Gold's hologram guilt trips and her suicide?"

"I already have," Ingrid points out. "The problem becomes whether or not a judge is going to believe - again - the wealthiest and most influential guy in town or Archie the dalmatian loving shrink. We need testimony against his character."

"Try everyone who has ever had a conversation with him, maybe?"

"Funny," Ingrid replies shortly. "If only funny would win the case."

"What do you want from me?"

"I wanted you to do your job."

Emma glares at her. "I did."

"Clearly not well enough."

"You asked me to get you evidence - fuzzy and circumstantial at best, which I'm sure you know damn well - tying Gold's company to a _suicide_. I got you proof of his shady business dealings, recorded proof from his chief goddamn scientist that these things are engineered to make money, video from her dead dad's holograph, and everything else I could get my hands on. If you can't win the case with that I'm not sure you'll be able to win with anything barring Gold claiming he tied the fucking noose himself."

"If that's what I needed, you should have gotten it."

Emma snorts derisively. "You're insane."

"No, Gold is insane," Ingrid corrects, "I'm just a lawyer for the mother of a dead girl."

-/-

The case ends up dismissed, in the end.

Emma will just add it to the _List of Things Emma Has Fucked Up in 2025_ : starting with all of her interpersonal relationships and ending in the lives of Gold's victims.

It's an accomplishment to do so much in such a limited amount of time. Her mother should be more proud.

-/-

Emma leaves a message on Victor's voicemail when she's too drunk to know any better.

"Hey, asshole, congratulations. Now that girl is going to be hanging over your fucking head for the rest of your life. Morbid pun intended because you're a miserable, spineless asshole who deserves to think of the disturbing shit he's allowed to happen. Asshole. Can science engineer you a new backbone yet? Because I know fear makes people do stupid shit, but this is above and beyond. How about you do something with your goddamn miserable existence for once to make people's lives better instead of just covering your own a-"

She sobers, realizing something of apparent importance.

"I need to go do something. Don't think I'm done with you yet, asshole."


	6. sobering up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I really want to warn you guys before reading that this chapter could be really disturbing and triggering for some readers. Police corruption has kind of been a constant theme in this fic, but this chapter specifically deals with police killings - that we see way too many of in present day, any is too many - and I really just want to caution people before reading to prepare themselves if that’s a topic that’s triggering for you. Your comfort is of utmost importance to me. Please, please don’t feel bad if you have to pass up on reading or skim reading it or whatever. Hell, if you PM/DM/Message me on tumblr or whatever just to ask for a basic recap so you don’t have to read it I’d understand completely. 
> 
> I get into more detail (probably more detail than you wanted) in the chapter end notes. So, on that very somber note, I really want to thank you guys for all the incredible feedback I’ve gotten. Thank you so much for reading.

Emma sobers up a little bit on the cab ride over to the station. Not completely, but enough so that she's not entirely stumbling in her effort to get through the doorway.

She does almost trip over the door jam, though. And Emma tries to push instead of pull the door to get inside. The night isn't full of her finest moments, admittedly. It gets worse when she spots of the reasons that the hates coming here in the first place.

"You're still here?" Emma asks in disgust upon seeing Albert. "I thought your decrepit ass would have retired by now."

He opens his mouth to retort, but she cuts him off before he has the chance.

"Yeah, you can't fire me anymore. Where's David?"

Lancelot, who looks as if he's attempting to choke back his laughter as best as he can, answers her from a nearby desk. "He's in the filing room. You know where it is."

"Yup. Thanks."

Albert is still struggling to come up with a reply when she leaves.

_Idiot._

-/-

"We need to talk," Emma announces when she walks into the room.

David is elbows deep in old evidence files (you would think with the invention of crazy holographic ghosts bureaucracy would upgrade, and yet...) and he doesn't even look up from what's in front of him.

"We need to talk," she repeats, again.

Still no response.

Emma grabs a nearby pipe - conveniently placed on top of the desk David is sitting at. "Hey, we need to talk!" she shouts, punctuating each word with a clang of the pipe against the metal door.

"Emma, good lord, that's evidence in a trial!"

"Yeah, well, it got your attention," Emma shrugs, dropping the aforementioned pipe as casually as possible. It clangs to the ground. "Trials are bullshit farces. It's kind of weird to leave that hanging out in the open, anyway."

David gives her a long suffering sigh, putting his head in his hands and rubbing at his eyes. "I'm sorry about what happened with Gold's case, but normally people don't decide to take random objects and hammer them against the nearest door."

"And normally people's brothers don't give them the silent treatment when they're 30, but we're defying convention a lot lately."

A beat of silence passes. David stares at his shoes and his face flushes in embarrassment. He opens his mouth as if to reply, but no sound comes out.

Emma huffs. "I came here to apologize."

"Then we really must be defying convention," David notes, sounding deceptively light.

"Don't be a dick. I thought about what you said, about fear making us do stupid shit and I had this conversation with an eleven year old named Henry and I just left this weird voicemail to Whale-"

"Why were you talking to an eleven year old? And a whale? Good lord, Emma, how drunk _are you_?"

She waves him off easily. "That's not really relevant to the story. Anyway, I can't make decisions for you, I get that. It's unfair for me to want to wrap my brother in bubble wrap in an underground bunker to the detriment of the people who need his help."

David's mouth quirks, at that. "Bubble wrap?"

"That shit is expensive these days, honestly the apology is more economical than moral," she quips and he finally gives her a full blown smile, "I'm sorry you lost the election and I'm sorry I ignored you."

"You're forgiven," David says and, judging by the look on his face, he means it. "I understand why you reacted the way you did, after what happened to Graham. I do. I just think of all the other people who could suffer the same fate as Graham and the people like Arthur who get away with it if there aren't people to do something about it."

"People like you," Emma observes.

"People like us," David corrects.

He gets up to hug her. She lets him.

"I think I might have just gotten you fired, though, I was brutal to Albert when I walked in," she mutters, wrapping her arms around his back.

"If they could fire me, you know they would have a long time ago. I think they're just afraid of Ingrid, at this point."

Emma grimaces against his shoulder, leaning back to face him. "Remind me to talk to you about that."

He nods. "Can you explain the eleven year old thing to me, first?"

"Right after I throw up in the nearest trash can."

"You should really drink less. I'm gonna need an explanation for the whale, too."

"I'm starting to miss the silent treatment."

-/-

Emma skims the files of Gold's case a few days later, wondering how psychologically healthy it is to soak in her failures.

Not very, is the likely answer.

She may have been able to patch up her relationship with David, but she isn't sure how to reverse her last - and possibly greatest - fuck up of letting Whale and her best chance at taking down Gold slip through her fingers. At this point, Emma doesn't think she can.

All the same, she finds some pertinent information.

"Son of a bitch," Emma murmurs.

-/-

"You know, breaking and entering is a felony," Ingrid says, almost sounding bored at discovering her daughter in her office.

Emma shrugs, looking up from the latest issue of the Storybrooke Mirror on Ingrid's glass desk (which must have cost a fortune, given the thing is completely paperless and touch screen and whatever else). "What, are you going to press charges?"

Ingrid frowns. "Keep it up and I might."

"What didn't you tell me?" Emma asks, snatching the document she's splayed on Ingrid's desk. "Hm?"

Ingrid takes a look at it and sighs. "I didn't think it was very relevant to the investigation."

"Not very rele-" Emma cuts herself off, resisting the urge to thump her head against the very expensive desk. "Ingrid, Gold almost settled with you for hundreds of thousands out of court."

"I wanted a guilty verdict," Ingrid supplies, matter-of-factly. "That wasn't enough. I needed a leg in if we decided to go any further in prosecuting Gold. Maybe we could have charged him with his wife's murder, with that and a little more digging."

Emma gapes. "You picked integrity over money, huh?"

Ingrid gives her a self-defeating shrug. "I'm not proud of what I've done, Emma. I'm not happy to see Tolemac out on the streets. I want to help these people because it's the right thing to do."

Emma scoffs. "Yeah, well, the dead will rise before that happens."

"They already have." Ingrid replies candidly. "Isn't that the point, here?"

Emma just raises her eyebrows in response.

-/-

A few nights later, there are reports of a shooting near 81st Street.

She hears it on the scanner, which she keeps on as background noise in her office, sometimes. Emma is a creature of habit, as much as she pretends not to be. The static is familiar, the calls are familiar, and maybe she's been keeping it on more and more just because it makes her feel better about David being out there. It makes her feel safer. It makes her feel more in control. And control, where the state of things is rocky and unpredictable and sometimes deadly, is a commodity as precious as they come.

But Emma hears officer involved shooting over the radio and her blood runs cold.

-/-

Emma storms into the police station and nearly cries in relief when she spots David at his desk, greeting him with a fierce hug.

"Whoa, Emma," David exclaims, his arms wrapping around her body to keep her in place. "I'm not complaining, but do you want to explain?"

"I heard officer involved shooting," Emma gasps out, releasing him. "You want to tell me what the hell happened?"

David's expression turns grim. "It's...Tolemac. He shot a kid, barely seventeen. Says he tried to pull a weapon, which I doubt. I was just about to head over there to see what the hell happened."

"Oh my God," Emma replies, horrified. "Is the kid okay?"

"Dead on arrival," Lancelot answers, walking up to stand next to the two of them. He sounds like a combination of sad and frustrated and his voice cracks as he finishes the sentence. "Kid never stood a chance."

Emma's eyes turn to Albert, who seems unconcerned by the happenings around him in his desk.

"You proud of yourself, Spencer?" Emma asks, livid, propping (slamming) her hands on the other side of his desk. "This is the result of what you've let happen. You know that."

"It's us against them," Albert shrugs, sounding perfectly comfortable. "All we're trying to do is our jobs."

"Arthur have you believing that?" David sneers, fists clenching. Emma hasn't seen him this angry since Graham died. Hell, she hasn't seen Lancelot or herself this angry since either. Hearing about the callous murder of innocent people will do that to you, even if it's a kid you don't know. "It's not 'us against them', Albert. It's 'we pledged to protect these people and we need to do that instead of saving our own asses'."

Albert snorts. "Yeah, you can tell yourself that when they come at you with pitchforks."

Lancelot stops in his track out the door abruptly and turns to face him. "Explain what you mean by _'they'_ , Albert. You seem so fond of the word."

"Don't twist my words."

"You're the one who said it," Emma points out, meeting him with a glare.

"Oh, please," Albert retorts, "Go back to whatever hellhole you're calling a P.I. office. You quit. You revoked the right to be here."

"Hey! Watch your mouth, Spencer," David growls. "She's with me."

Albert rolls his eyes dramatically. "Dragging your kid sister around had to get old in kindergarten, Nolan. No point in continuing that now, don't you have a career to protect?"

David opens his mouth to reply, but Emma only raises her hand in front of him in a gesture for him to stop.

"Yeah, and so do you," Emma retorts at Albert. "You may not be sherriff anymore but standing idly by when the new sheriff shoots an innocent kid is hardly legacy building."

"And he was hardly innocent," Albert shrugs.

Emma wants to strangle him so badly her hands start shaking. "I know he has less blood on his hands than you do. Tell me, what does enabling a murderer time and time again feel like? Does it give you a rush?"

"She's right," Lancelot adds, stiffly. "You and Tolemac have pulled this shit long enough."

"I can't fire her, but I'm sure Arthur can fire you two," Albert replies angrily, pointing fingers at both Lancelot and David.

"Fire me too," Gwen, another deputy, chimes in. She got hired only shortly before Emma left, but she honestly has never had a bad word to say about the woman. Gwen is smart, driven, and - right now - a goddamn hero. "I'd rather lose my job than see more families lose their kids."

Albert turns to look at her, eyes narrowing. "You've got some nerve-"

"You know what?" Robin interrupts, a recent transfer from a nearby town. "Please, go ahead and fire me while you're at it."

"And me," Marian adds, sitting on top of a nearby desk. Marian, tough as hell while still having a heart of gold, is the type of cop that almost makes Emma regret quitting. "Whoops. It looks like that's almost your entire department, Albert. An old sheriff a beat away from retirement and a murderer will be some of the only people left on the force."

"Best of luck with that," Lancelot shrugs.

Emma has to grin at the group of them and the increasingly red Albert. He walks out of the room, angrily muttering something about insubordination and ungrateful brats.

None of them look bothered by it in the slightest.

She has never respected a group of people more.

-/-

They find Tolemac, rambling next to where they dragged the body away. The paramedics came as soon as they could - before Lancelot and David came out - but, of course, Arthur waited a full five minutes after shooting to even call it in.

He's pacing back and forth, almost manically. There's something deeply unsettling about his body language and the dead look in his eyes.

That, and the literal blood on his hands.

"Hey, asshole," Emma yells, by way of greeting.

Arthur takes a minute to realize there's another person there.

"What? You decided you missed the first time and wanted to hit the right target the second?"

"Killing Graham was an accident," he says.

Emma can tell he's telling the truth.

But that doesn't make it any better.

"But killing the shoplifting teenager wouldn't have been, huh?" she finishes. "Just like you killed Billy Gust. Congratulations, you're not just an everyday murderer. You're also a racist one."

She waits for him to recite the party line she knows is already scripted for him. Self defense, Billy could have had a gun, the list goes on.

Emma remembers enough of them from the first goddamn trial.

( _Thanks, mom._ )

"Death is only temporary," Arthur states, offhandedly. He's still pacing. It's unnerving her, "You know that. A gift Gold has given us, now. The families get to talk to their son, he stops committing crimes and a thief is off the streets, blah, blah, blah. Everyone wins."

At first, all Emma can do is gape.

Then she punches him in the face. A cracking noise follows.

"You delusional piece of shit."

Arthur puts his hand to his bloody nose, horrified. "You just assaulted a police officer."

"Yeah, well, you killed one."

"Emma," David rushes in, out of breath, "What the hell are you doing?"

"What I should have done a long time ago," Emma mutters, blinded by rage. She lunges only to be met by David's arms.

David pries her away from Arthur, who scuttles on the concrete in the other direction, arms wound tight around her waist. Lancelot appears right behind him, shortly after.

She struggles against David's grip. "Let go of me. This has nothing to do with you."

"Yes, it does," David states, out of breath thanks to the exertion it takes to keep her still. "Don't give him what he wants, Emma.

Emma huffs, shaking her limbs out.

Maybe that wasn't the wisest decision, but it was a satisfying one.

"Emma," Lancelot groans, looking up to the sky in frustration. "We're going to have to arrest you."

She sighs, holding her wrists out for him to cuff her. "Assaulting a police officer. I have a right to remain silent, a right to an attorney, etcetera. I'm allowed to find it ironic that I'm the one being arrested when I'm not the one who just killed a kid, right?"

"Trust me," Lancelot mutters darkly. "We're working on that."

-/-

It isn't the first time she's been in jail. Honestly, she doubts it will be the last. The only benefit here that she can think of is that this time she's not pregnant.

Emma lifts her head up from the pillow, after resolving to stay in the damn cell however long it took to prove her point, when she hears a rattling on the other side of the cell.

"Your bail was posted," Gwen announces to Emma through the bars.

Emma raises an eyebrow. She's a bail bondsperson - well, partly. She knows how much bail costs, and assaulting a cop is hefty on the fines. David and Mary Margaret are on government salaries, plus it would look bad for any of David's future prospects if he bailed out a cop puncher.

Even if the cop was a murderer and the puncher was his sister.

"By who?"

"Your mother."

Emma's head bumps against the wall above the bed, "Shit."

Gwen sighs sympathetically. "You did the right thing, you know."

Emma's brow furrows. "Committing a felony?"

"Breaking his nose," Gwen replies, curtly. "Only thing that would have been better is if you aimed for the balls."

"I'll keep that in mind," Emma says, her respect for the woman growing by the second. "I wish we worked more together before…"

"Murder number one?" Gwen supplies, meeting Emma's eyes with a steely gaze before gesturing for her to leave the cell. "Yeah, me too. You were a good cop, you know. Even in the short time that we did work together, I knew that."

Emma's lips twitch as she stands up to leave. "Thanks. Now I guess I should deal with the devil and see what part of my afterlife is getting signed away."

"Best of luck," Gwen tells her, not unkindly.

-/-

"You shouldn't have done that," Emma says as she walks past Ingrid, "It's going to take me forever to pay you back."

"Well, then," Ingrid replies, perfectly calm. The sound of her heels on the linoleum speed up a little as she attempts to keep up with Emma's strides. "Don't pay me back."

"I'm paying you back."

"It wasn't a loan," Ingrid corrects her, yet again, "You were in jail. I got you out of it. I dealt with the charges, too, so you won't have to worry about them. I don't think Tolemac is going to be in a real position to pursue them right now, anyway."

"Well next time," Emma says the words sharply, pushing open the door to leave the building. Ingrid follows her into the parking lot. "Don't bother. It can't be good for business to be seen bailing out the woman who beat the shit out of your client, anyway."

"Former client," Ingrid corrects.

Emma snorts derisively. "That is until he needs a lawyer and the union pays you even more."

"I regret it, Emma," Ingrid replies, growing more and more frustrated, "Is that what you want to hear? How can I make this right?

"You want to make it right?" Emma asks, spinning around to face her. The cold air is stinging her face, but she's a little beyond caring. "You want to attone for your sins? How about you use your job for good, like the mother I used to know. And not just for one case that you can personally fucking relate to. Permanently. Because I can tell you right now that there's a family that is left in the goddamn wake of the man you set loose."

Emma walks the rest of the way to her car and slams the door shut once she's inside.

Ingrid is still standing in the parking lot when she leaves.

-/-

When Emma gets to the station, David is comforting a sobbing woman. It looks like it's Billy's mother.

Her words seem to confirm that.

"They were supposed to keep him safe," she cries, over and over again, into David's shoulder. "He was a good boy. You have to believe me."

"I do," David replies resolutely. "I swear to you, I do. And we're going to do everything in our power to make sure nothing like this ever happens again, Martha."

"I don't know if this will make you feel any better," Emma says after a beat of silence, with a self-deprecating shrug, "but I think I broke Tolemac's nose."

"You did," David answers, leaning back. She can tell he's fighting the urge to sound satisfied.

"I want him in prison for what he's done," Martha Gust murmurs into her tissue, "Anything short of that isn't justice. This can't happen to any more of our children."

Emma nods solemnly and her resolve steels.

"I promise you, I'll - we will - do everything we can to make sure it doesn't happen again. It's gone on for too long," Lancelot adds, ambling up in front of them to join the conversation, "Way too damn long."

Marian comes over with another box of tissues and Martha gives her a shaky smile in thanks.

Emma has spent long enough being selfish and self-destructive when it comes to helping people. Past a point, she has to suck it up and try to find the person she used to be. It isn't just about her anymore. It's not even just about Graham anymore. It's about human beings who need help. Emma can stay bitter and angry and lick her wounds in private for the rest of her life or she can be the person she used to dream of being.

It's a hard choice, but that doesn't mean she can avoid making it.

-/-

Emma turns on the news once she gets home, groaning when it's revealed that even national media isn't allowing her to escape from this.

"We've identified the police officer involved in this case as Arthur Tolemac, the sheriff of a small town called Storybrooke, Maine. He, interestingly enough, has had previous charges levied against him for the killing of another police officer, Graham Humbert, but those charges were ultimately dropped."

"Well, John," one of the commentators replies with a heavy sigh, "this is an all too familiar story for us. Another unarmed black teenager killed by the police. And in the past decade, it's only gotten worse. Body cameras are now universal, but even with that kind of evidence you don't see a lot of prosecutors - let alone juries - willing to convict a police officer. And all too often, you're seeing this - what we refer to as - blue wall of silence with their colleagues."

Maybe with Albert, Emma thinks, eyeing the screen. And any delusional assholes in the department sociopathic enough to be chummy with Arthur in the first place.

"Storybrooke's police department seems to be having an interesting response, however," the commentator continues. "The area's police union released a statement, backing Tolemac's use of force. The former sheriff - Albert Spencer - sent out a press release saying that he's sure when things get resolved it will prove Tolemac's innocence. The rest of the cops, though..."

The news anchor replies quickly, "There are a few police officers in the department who are really looking at this and saying, you know what, this isn't right. David Nolan - who just lost the sheriff race not too long ago against Tolemac called him quote 'cowardly and a disgrace to those who serve to protect every community' on his Facebook account. Lancelot DuLac, a deputy on the force, called it 'consistent with Arthur Tolemac's pattern of violence and hate'. A few other deputies...actually, almost every other deputy on the force has posted something similar."

"Didn't Nolan's sister - a former deputy for the Storybooke Police Department - get arrested a few days ago for punching Tolemac?" a different commentator asks, interrupting.

The anchor shakes his head, quickly. "Those reports are unconfirmed. We want to be cautious with our reporting before we start -"

"We have video of that, actually," the second commentator interrupts. "I'm sure the network can-"

Sure enough, video of Emma swinging her fist and Arthur collapsing to the ground appears on screen. It looks like it's from David's body camera, if the angle is anything to go by.

Emma tilts her head to the side, studying the fuzzy footage.

Her form was kind of all over the place with that punch. She'll blame the anger for that.

"We can get video of that but not of the murder of Billy Gust," the first commenter notes sardonically as the tape rolls. "And people wonder why there are protests."

Emma furrows her eyebrows at the thought.

She tugs her laptop out, fingers moving rapidly on the keys until she finds what she's looking for. The information, thankfully, is readily available. That is, if you know where to look.

Numerous requests were filed for the city of Storybrooke to release the body camera footage of Arthur Tolemac. And they were kind of filled.

They were just missing a large chunk of the night. One that happened to coincide with the block of time in which Billy Gust was killed. A technological issue that only seemed to affect just that hour. The mayor's office was responsible for its release and, surprise surprise, this was all they offered the public.

You would think they'd try to be more subtle.

Emma thumbs over Regina's campaign records, just to be safe. She doesn't know how much she's going to find digging into her who fundraised for her years ago, but…

One of her top donors in the mayoral race is the very same donor that was attached to Storybrooke's police union, a few state legislature's campaigns, and numerous other political offices - Gold's shady _For a More Advanced Maine_ organization. She shouldn't be surprised in the least, all things considered.

Emma thinks about this, for a moment. Then she sits up from her desk, grabs her jacket, and slams the door behind her.

-/-

"Your police force is in fucking tatters and people are - rightly - pissed," Emma starts as soon as she enters the mayor's office. "And rumor has it, your staff is trying to cover this shit up."

"Excuse me?" the mayor looks up, disgruntled by the interruption, "You shouldn't be here. Security!"

Emma shuts the door behind her and locks it with only an exaggerated sigh. "I'm only going to say this once: I have evidence that your staff tried to hide body camera video and I will not hesitate to go to the press with it if you don't listen to me. Fire Arthur Tolemac and do a full investigation of the police department. See to it that everyone accountable has charges slapped on them - starting with Tolemac and ending with Spencer, which you should be able to do just fine once you release the goddamn evidence."

Regina blinks rapidly. "Let me get this straight: you want to come in here and tell me how to do my job? And you're trying to blackmail me to do it?"

"Yup," Emma nods, undeterred, "and you're going to do it."

"You're bluffing," Regina narrows her eyes. "Even if you aren't, I don't care."

Emma sighs. "Suit yourself."

"I'm just trying to do my job." Regina replies testily.

"Yeah?" she asks rhetorically, "I've heard that a lot lately and reply has always been the same: try doing it less shittily."

Regina seethes, standing up from her seat at her desk. "You've got some nerve."

"Then it won't be out of character for me to leak the proof to the media and see your ass recalled. I would've done that anyway, to be honest, but I wanted to see Arthur's slimey ass fired first. I think I'll take some pleasure in seeing you gone, anyway. Say hi to Robert Gold for me."

The expression on Regina Mills' face can only be described as pure dread.

Emma slams the door on her way out, the security guard outside the door looking baffled as she strides past him.

"Ma'am," he tries calling after her.

"Suggestion, pal," she shouts over her shoulder. "Find a new job. I don't think you'll have this one for much longer."

-/-

Emma keeps her promise and sends the documentation to a few media outlets. They have a field day and the people get - understandably - even more upset at another sign of corruption in the government in their town. Protests spread to Regina's front door.

The mayor resigns the next day.

Emma can't say she's sad to see her go.

-/-

"I heard Tolemac is taking a leave of absence," Emma says in lieu of greeting when a weary looking David walks into her office.

"Paid. He's literally being paid to do nothing after he killed someone," David groans in exasperation, hand scrubbing at his face. "I feel so bad for Billy's mother. To see that man walk free as if nothing happened, as if he didn't kill her son like it was nothing. I thought after Graham that it couldn't get any worse, but now I… the power went even more to his head. I should have predicted this."

Emma raises her eyebrows. "Are you seriously blaming yourself for this?"

"It's the job of good cops to make sure that bad cops don't get away with doing bad things," David says, simply. "The second that stops being the case - we see cases like Billy's. We see teenagers shot in the street and people like Tolemac walk. It's been this way. Not just in the past ten years, in the history of any police force. It's disgusting."

She frowns, nodding her head in understanding. "It does just make you sick, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," he says, uncharacteristically short.

"We're going to see Tolemac convicted, you know," Emma says, folding her hands in her lap. "And Spencer, for that matter, for enabling this kind of bullshit. The mayor is out. We'll get a new one, a better one. They'll fire those two and the department will pursue charges. I trust our D.A. Kathryn knows what she's doing. She's smart, she's shrewd, and she doesn't take any shit. We'll get an indictment from a grand jury and a guilty verdict from a jury and, hopefully, those two assholes will spend the rest of their lives behind bars."

David looks surprised at her statement. "Optimism. I never that I'd see that coming out of your mouth."

"Yeah, that's how you know things are shitty," Emma replies sardonically, " _I_ sound like the optimistic one between the two of us."

"You used to sound like that more often," David comments, "before."

"Arthur's first murder? I'm not letting you become as jaded as I am," Emma mutters, flipping through the paperwork in her lap. Henry's birth records are uncommonly difficult to wade through, the mother must have requested a closed adoption. Multitasking is a pain in the ass but she made the kid a promise. "I have enough bitterness for the both of us."

"Now I'm beginning to understand why," David replies, running his hands through his hair. "Do you really think another mayor would make a difference?"

Emma shrugs. "Maybe. Right now I'm choosing to believe that because I know that's what you would believe. And right now, someone needs to fill that role."

David stares, blankly, at the desk

"You want to know what a few people in city council asked me?"

Emma looks up. "What?"

"If I…" he clears his throat, sounding like he's in disbelief before he even starts talking. "They need an interim mayor. Someone that the community can recognize."

A wide smile spreads on her lips. "Someone they can trust."

David shakes his head, hands covering his face. "I'm not nearly qualified enough for this…"

"As long as you don't cover up a murder, I think you'll be a large step up from the last one," Emma replies easily.

"I'm serious, Emma."

"And I'm serious," she retorts, back straightening. "David, you're exactly the kind of person this town needs right now."

"Emma," he says, pleadingly, "you have to understand. The people of this town have suffered enough. And the leadership here hasn't helped that in the slightest. Hell, it's the leadership in this town that screws people over. The person to help heal this community isn't someone who doesn't know what he's doing."

"This town needs a good leader, right?" Emma asks, matter of factly.

"Yes," David answers, sounding exasperated.

"Show them what a good leader looks like," Emma says, looking at David with more conviction than she thought herself capable of. "Take the damn job. You know what you need to do, now do it."

David doesn't reply immediately.

Just leans back and looks like he's considering it.

Emma stands up a little abruptly, her thoughts taking her to yet another task at hand.

"Hey - wait - where are you going?" David asks, confused.

"I have unfinished business to take care of," she calls over her shoulder.

-/-

Some people say that adrenaline makes people do stupid shit. That may be true. Actually, Emma thinks, it's definitely true.

For the wealthiest man in this God forsaken town, Gold's security is absolute shit. Emma takes a grand total of five minutes to get into his office and the place is more obnoxious than Ingrid's, if that's possible. It looks bigger than her entire apartment.

It's as if he's trying to compensate for something, she thinks. It could be a small penis, it could be psychopathy, or it could be a combination of the two.

(Her bet is the third. Psychopathy has to be involved in there, somewhere.)

The door opens around thirty minutes after she sits down in his seat.

"How did you get in here?" Gold asks, coolly.

Emma lazily props her boots up on his desk (it looks like it's touchscreen, but she's not here to preserve his goddamn toys). "I learned how to pick locks when I was sixteen. Your door doesn't have one of those handy swipe-things. Told your guards that there was a man outside trying to break in and they ran in that direction. You _really_ need better security. You don't know what kind of people could get into a place like this."

Gold lifts his chin, looking unphased. "I know who you are, Emma Swan."

She balks.

"What? Do you honestly believe I'm not mindful of the people tracking me? Sticking their nose where it doesn't belong? Trying to burn down what I've painstakingly built?"

"You built all that on a pile of corpses," she retorts angrily. "Literally!"

"I'm giving people the opportunity to talk to the people they've lost," Gold replies, unruffled as ever. "Explain to me how that makes me such a bad man, Miss Swan."

"Should I start naming people who are dead because of you?" she replies, incredulous. "Billy Gust - thanks to your generous campaign donations to the guy who killed him, Sydney Boyd, Mi-"

Gold tuts disapprovingly. "Ah, you know what they say about those who make baseless assumptions."

"I'm glad you know who I am," Emma snarls, rising to eye level with him. "That way you remember my name when I take you down. I don't give a damn who you are or what you do, I'm not afraid of you."

He sets both of his hands on his desk, leaning over to her in what she's sure is supposed to be a gesture of intimidation. "You have no idea what I'm capable of, Miss Swan."

Emma is done being fucking intimidated. "You have no idea what _I'm_ capable of."

She leaves without another word.

-/-

A news broadcast filters over the cramped diner when she's waiting for David.

"In an unexpected turn of events, Deputy David Nolan, who you may remember ran for Sheriff a few weeks ago, will be inaugurated as the interim mayor in Regina Mills' place this afternoon. In related news, Storybrooke's new district attorney - Kathryn Midas - is pursuing charges against Sheriff Arthur Tolmac and former Sheriff Albert Spencer for the killing of a local teen. The two are currently on paid leave and it's expected that the new Mayor Nolan will be asking for their resignation."

Good news. For once the arc of justice is pointed towards the good side.

(Let Gold try it with her - she's ready.)

David texts her to let her know he's going to be a little bit late - something about an interview with the Misthaven Journal - and she toys with the phone in her hands for a minute. Everything that's been going on the past few days has been making her wistful.

She sighs, pressing a name she hasn't in awhile. It goes straight to voicemail.

"Hey, Killian, it's um...it's me. I thought about what you said and...yeah, I can't do this over a voicemail. Just call me back, when you get the chance?" she fumbles over her words, unsure of what even to say. "A lot of things have changed, since you left. Everything that's been happening...Call me back."

"Who was that?" David asks, sliding into the opposite side of the booth.

Emma pretends to look around at the diner in wonderment. "The mayor! In this fine eating establishment? My, my, my - I think myself and my fellow Granny's patrons should be thanking all the stars in the un-"

David rolls his eyes. "Just because you're my sister doesn't mean I will not leave you in this diner all alone."

Emma sighs melodramatically. "First day in office and he's already drunk on power. It really does corrupt."

"Absolute power corrupts," David corrects.

"And it corrupts absolutely."

"Which brings me to the next order of business," David replies with a grin, "both as mayor and as your brother."

"You're giving me a key to the city for best pictures busting people doing it at the Holiday Inn on 14th Street?" Emma mimes looking emotional at the thought, fanning her face with her hand. "Damn it, David, you shouldn't have."

He sighs heavily, shaking his head. "You're really going to make this as difficult as possible, aren't you?"

"What else are sisters for?" she asks, looking supremely satisfied with herself.

"The point is… now that I've taken on the role of mayor, Storybrooke needs a new sheriff," David tells her, a grin tugging on his lips. He pulls a familiar sheriff's badge from his pocket and deposits it on top of the table. "One who can guide the department to a change to new and better policing. One who has experience on the force and who is tough enough to deal with whatever comes her way."

The grin slips off her face pretty quickly after that.

"David," Emma cautions, "you can't be asking this of me."

"Show them what a good leader looks like," he quotes, "take the damn job."

She frowns. "What about Lancelot? He's much more qualified than I am."

David shakes his head. "He said - and I quote - _'I would rather do literally anything else rather than be in charge of a bunch of underpaid fools with guns'._ I asked him, repeatedly. He refused...repeatedly."

"Marian?"

"Didn't want the job."

"Gwen?"

"Told me I should ask you and she was right."

Emma groans, staring at the badge on the table.

"I'm not even a cop anymore."

"But you were," David presses, "and you can be again. This isn't about you or me anymore, Emma. It's about what the people need. And what they need, who they need, is someone like you. Someone tough, someone smart, someone who won't let anyone - no matter who they are - get away with any crap."

Emma stares at him for a long while, toying with the thought.

Sheriff Swan does have a nice, alliterative ring to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Be warned, this might actually be the longest author's note in the history of the world. You can skip over this if you want, of course, but I really wanted to take a minute to talk specifically about Tolemac (Camelot backwards, btw, if you're wondering why I chose such a weird last name for Arthur) in the broader context beyond this fic. 
> 
> I was really hesitant at first about including the shooting and seeing something we already see way too fucking often in present day real life in a fic set a decade in the future. You read fic for escapism and to unwind, not to be reminded of how shitty the world already is. I also was really concerned about doing it justice and having it not come off as something that I’m just writing for kicks as a plot device. But, one of my greatest grievances with some dystopian novels, a lot of science fiction, etc. is that in serving their purpose to highlight how problems are going to fuck us over in the future, they gloss over present day issues - from sexism, ableism, homophobia, to racism. Things that OUAT disappoints me with too - HONESTLY with the Milah murder apologism, missing hand jokes, barely being able to put in plain text Mulan’s sexuality, and killing off most of your characters of color, A&E. YOU ARE BETTER THAN THIS.
> 
> I've tried to stress a lot of issues that don't magically disappear in a decade in the future when highlighting the worst of humanity and privilege and the general feeling of hopelessness. It seemed like a disservice to me to make police corruption such a central theme in this fic and not address a major element of it: the fact that shitty police officers can time and time again get away with the murder of black teenagers. And along with that, the fact that if other police officers and people in positions of power do not hold bad cops accountable that this shit will never change. And while this is the catalyst for Emma and David to step up to the plate and take their positions of leadership in the community more seriously, it's not just a cheap vehicle for their character development. It's a horrible crime that deserves to be taken seriously, by these characters and in real life. 
> 
> Basically, it's not just a plot point that I decided on doing for cheap drama and I really don't take this lightly at all. As a white woman, it is absolutely unquestionable that I benefit from white privilege and that it's easy for me to write about this in a fictional context and completely separated from what the families of victims have to go through. I don't see it as a cool plot twist, I don't see it just as a vehicle for the character development of white characters, and - again - I do not take it lightly at all. I wrote it because I thought it was important, because I thought it was relevant to the story I’m trying to tell, and because the issue of police corruption doesn’t just impact other police officers and I honestly feel like it’d be, frankly, dishonest of me to portray it that way. 
> 
> (And if you’re troubled by the portrayal of police brutality in this fic because you think it shows the cops as bad guys or whatever and serve me some All Lives Matter bullshit, do not even boooooother reading or reviewing this fic ever again tbh.)
> 
> If you're looking for great causes to donate to in the new year, Black Lives Matter organizations would be a great start. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. Next chapter should be up soon. (It’s lighter, I swear.)


	7. parenting skills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey! Kind of an early update, but I'm hoping no one minds. Thank you guys so, so much for your feedback. It means the world. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

She has one last order of business before she takes the job. It's unpaid, but Emma has always prided herself on being able to keep her promises. She isn't going to break the one she made to Henry. The kid has been through enough.

Emma spends hours trying to get the information through traditional means. She pulls up Henry's birth certificate, goes through those shady _'Who is your Mommy?'_ sites, and exhausts Storybrooke's court house.

The mother really didn't want to be found. The records are sealed.

Henry is just going to have to accept that.

It's not that she doesn't understand the mother, of course. She does. Too well, for whatever her reasons could have been. She's just not going to let herself be found, whether it's guilt or fear that motivated her to close the records in the first place. Emma has nearly resigned herself to this fact when she sits in the courthouse, after yet another government official informs her that, _"No, being a private detective isn't grounds to open a sealed government document."_

She considers if she would be able to do it as sheriff, but thinks about the prior abuse of power that ousted the last three public officials. Emma decides against it, for obvious reasons.

So, she sits at a bench, head between her knees, as she sighs. The kid asked for one thing and she couldn't even deliver on that. When Emma raises her head again, after much contemplation of how useless she suddenly feels, she notices something about one of the filing rooms.

The door is wide open.

She stands up, cautiously. Emma looks around for people that might notice what she's doing, but the receptionist is busy on the phone and the only other nearby courthouse patron, a man on another bench, has fallen asleep waiting for some document to get in. This might be her one chance to do sneak in and get what she came for.

What she's doing is slightly illegal. But, to be fair, she isn't _yet_ sherriff.

She enters the room, easily. _Sealed birth records_ , the sign on one of the cabinets says, suiting her purposes perfectly. Emma doesn't understand why these people still haven't upgraded to better filing systems, but she's thankful for it.

It's by a stroke of pure luck that she finds Henry Miller within five minutes of rummaging through the damn filing cabinet.

Emma pulls the certificate out, relieved to have finally done this and kept her damn promise. What she reads on it promptly makes her drop it like it's on fire.

' _Mother: Emma Swan'_ is printed on it.

Emma's heart drops to the pit of her stomach with an overwhelming sense of pure panic.

As fucked up as it is, it makes sense. He's the right age. He's in the right area, if the limited information Ingrid told her about the woman who adopted him (who is now dead, apparently) was truthful. And the father section is left blank. Which...fits.

Because she ran away at 17 because of her own goddamn insecurities and met a guy who promised her the world and failed to deliver. Instead, Neal got her landed in prison for his own crime with a positive pregnancy test and few feasible options. She was just a kid herself, really.

She couldn't be a mother, didn't trust herself to be. The baby would be better off without her, anyway. Everyone would be.

(This was her thought process at the time, but there are definitely some of those patterns of thinking that stuck.)

(Patterns of thinking like not trusting herself with a kid.)

Emma picks the certificate up with shaking fingers, quickly putting it back in its place in the filing cabinet. She walks out of the room anxiously and no one gives her a second glance. It's not until after she off of the elevator to get to the parking lot that she throws up - quivering and miserable - into the nearest trash can thanks to the mixture of nerves and sheer anguish.

Serendipity, irony, fate...whatever you wanted to call it, it was a cruel and unfeeling bitch.

He's _still_ better off without her, anyway.

-/-

Henry comes in again when she's packing the boxes in her office the next day. Her hands can't stop shaking, as much as she tries to calm herself down, and she nearly slices her thumb off when trying to use the tape roll with the jagged edge attached to it. Emma knows better than trying to open anything with the boxcutter, so she'll left helplessly stacking the boxes that she may or may not need for the station. The contents are probably hopelessly jumbled, giving she may as well be _purposefully_ shaking them. It's a nervous tic she still hasn't managed to get over. It's only amplified further by the fact that her emotions aren't best described as 'nervous' as much as 'earth shattering despair and guilt'.

Henry's entrance only serves to put her more on edge.

(He must have inherited a terrible sense of timing from her. Hopefully he hasn't inherited much else from her.)

"Kid, what did I tell you about walking here?" Emma sighs, exasperated. She's trying to pretend like everything is normal and gets the distinct feeling she is failing miserably. How her voice almost warbles as she says it probably isn't helping matters. Neither is her horrible attempt at a firm and authoritative posture. "You know it's dangerous."

"Did you find my birth mother?" he asks, brown eyes (the color of Neal's) hopeful and wide.

Emma feels nauseous. She sets her palms on the desk and takes a deep breath, head bowed, before finding the words she wants to say. "You're not going to like what I have to say, kid."

Henry frowns. "Why?"

"Trust me on this," she mutters, combing her hand through her hair in agitation. "You're better off not knowing."

A tense pause passes between the two of them.

"Is she dead?" Henry asks, almost sniffling out the words. "Is my mom dead?"

Emma sighs, contemplating. She could lie to him. He'd be better off if she lied to him, she thinks. Or he could come back ten years later after he finds out the truth and hate her for the rest of his life.

Granted, him hating her is already more than a possibility here.

But she owes him answers, the answers she never got when she was abandoned on the side of a road without so much as a note. She at least owes this kid - her kid - what she used to yearn for. After all, aren't parents supposed to want for their kids what they were deprived of?

And that's what she is - a parent.

The thought is enough to make her head throb.

"She's not dead."

Henry lets out a long breath of relief.

"She's not dead," Emma repeats to him, leaning down on her haunches until she's eye level with him. "Your mom, she...she had you when she was at a really bad place in her life. She was young, only a few years older than you, and she made some bad decisions that landed her in jail. She gave birth to you handcuffed to a bed and knew she couldn't be the mother you deserved. She wanted you to have a better life, better than what she could give."

Henry frowns. "Is that why she gave me up?"

' _Giving up'_ isn't her favorite phrasing. You give up something you don't want. And all she wanted in that moment was to hold Henry, but she couldn't. He deserved better. He still deserves better.

Emma thought about those words - _giving up_ \- for a while, after. The words define themselves as resigning oneself to failure, which is hardly a concept she's unfamiliar with. She didn't so much give up on Henry as she gave up on herself. And, typically for her, that made the situation even worse by doing so.

Gaining faith in the world again - let alone herself - isn't as linear of a process as it should be. So maybe 'giving up' fit. Now she just has to figure out how to do the inverse of that.

Emma blinks back tears as best as she can, trying to hold her composure. Her voice cracks, despite her efforts. "It _killed_ her to do it, kid. You have no idea how tempted she was just to keep you and never let you go. But she didn't want to be selfish and keep you when you deserved so much better than what she could give."

His brow furrows for a minute and he looks at her thoughtfully. "You're my mom, aren't you?"

What _would_ the inverse of 'giving up' be? Allowing yourself a chance at success?

She adjusts a hair covering his forehead, still crouched down in front of him. "Yeah, kid. I am. I'm sorry it took me this long to realize it."

To her surprise, he meets her response with a bone crushing hug. Emma starts crying, genuinely crying, then. She rests her chin (the chin she passed onto him - _God_ ) on top of his head and folds herself around him protectively. It's insane how naturally the instinct comes to her. Her hands finally still and Emma finally manages to calm.

She never wants to let him go.

-/-

It physically pains her to drop him off at his foster parents' house (not that they're worried where he is, as Henry dully informs her) and say goodbye to him.

But, she has to. Emma parks the bug along the curb in front of his house and turns to Henry in the passenger seat, feeling the tears in her eyes start to swell up again despite her best efforts.

"Can I visit you again?" Henry asks, voice so small and hopeful she could honestly collapse into full on sobs.

It's been an emotional few weeks, to say the least.

"You can do more than that, if you want," she broaches, carefully. "I thought that maybe...you know how I told you that my mom adopted me? I was thinking that maybe I, if you wanted and your foster parents..."

Emma flounders for a minute. Maybe he doesn't want to have the mother that abandoned him in his life in such a permanent way. Maybe she's best off to visit every once and a while, to him, like a cool aunt instead of a trustworthy mom.

She just found out that she was his mother _yesterday_. It's not like she can take up the mantle just like that because - well, how could she?

At the end of the day, she just wants to do what's best for him. That doesn't mean she's part of that equation, necessarily, if he doesn't want her to be.

"Would you really adopt me back?" he inquires wondrously, looking at her as if she's just told him that Santa came early this year.

"Yeah," she replies softly, gazing at this boy - _her son_ \- with a similar sense of wonder. "I would."

The broad smile he gives her is worth everything.

-/-

Emma is sworn in as sheriff hours later.

David beams the entire fucking time and Mary Margaret isn't much better. Lancelot, Gwen, Marian, and Robin are all supportive throughout the entire thing, much to her relief. She doesn't really care about what Peter thinks (she really needs to fire him - he's high at least half of the time and she caught him grumbling about how much better things were when Tolemac was sheriff literally five minutes after she's took over).

It's a change, for sure.

Maybe a needed one.

(She tells David the news about finding Henry, about her conversation with him when she dropped him off. He goes from a 10 on the happiness scale to about a 15, already excitedly talking about how much fun Henry's going to have with his uncle and how he's never going to want for anything for the rest of his life. Just like that.)

(They didn't let Ingrid and David in when she gave birth to Henry shackled to the hospital bed. They visited her after, but the prison staff wouldn't even let them hug her as she cried through her explanation of why she couldn't be the mom the kid deserved. Now, she's a sheriff and a mother and David lifts her off her feet in a bear hug when she tells him the news.)

-/-

"I need your help," Emma announces, the most polite she's been in entering the room in over a year.

"My, how the tables have turned," Ingrid replies idly, toying with a pen on her desk, "It seems only a blink ago I was asking the same of you."

"It was weeks ago and I delivered," Emma says in exasperation, quickly regretting her decision to be polite.

Ingrid raises a dubious, perfectly manicured eyebrow.

"I delivered as much as I could, you know that," Emma amends.

She sighs. "Fair enough. What do you need help with?"

Emma seems taken aback for a moment by her response. "...That's it? That easy?"

Ingrid looks honestly confused, leaning back a bit in her chair. "What do you mean?"

"I thought I was going to have a pull teeth and threaten to blackmail you to get that response," Emma replies, sitting down in the chair opposite of Ingrid. "I'm almost disappointed."

Ingrid smiles wryly, shaking her head in a gesture more affectionate than frustrated. "There's always next time. What do you need?"

Emma sighs, biting the inside of her cheek. She's unsure of how to explain the situation, completely, and she came in here with something like an adrenaline rush propelling her forward. Defensive Ingrid is familiar to her (at least, more familiar to her this past year). Understanding and almost caring Ingrid? A foreign enemy, one that has her on edge and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

As if reading her thoughts, Ingrid softens. "You can tell me, Emma. I know I haven't exactly been the best person - let alone mother - lately. But if I can help you, let me."

Emma lets her elbows rest of her knees as she threads her fingers through her hair. "His name is Henry."

Ingrid doesn't press her further, just waits.

"The kid I gave up when I was seventeen, his name was Henry," Emma murmurs, the words barely audible. "After running away from home with Neal and you and David not finding me until I was already in prison for his goddamn crime...you told me to do what I felt was best for me. And I - I had to do what was best for him. For the both of us, probably. I gave him up for adoption and you used your connections to find him a good home so he wouldn't have to grow up the way I did."

"And I did," Ingrid says, quietly. "A woman who was aching for a child just like I was when I adopted you and David. Stable job. Level headed. A good choice for a mother."

"Yeah, well," Emma replies, a little brittle. "She's dead now. Or at least, that's what Henry says."

"You met Henry?" Ingrid asks, voice still kept as soft as possible.

"I was investigating Gold, believe it or not. He was...visiting...his mother. I saw him first on Christmas Eve, then again a few weeks ago. He talked to me about how his foster family ignores him and I feed him some bullshit speech about family. Next thing I know, he shows up at my office asking me to find his birth mom like he thinks his life is a noir movie and the question of his maternity can be solved by Sherlock fucking Holmes," Emma says, bordering on hysteric. "I didn't know he was my kid. I just wanted to get him out of my office - I work in a shitty neighborhood and I don't need kids getting hurt on my watch. And he just seemed so earnest and I...I told him I would find his mom."

"And you did." Ingrid supplies, matter-of-factly, gesturing to Emma.

Emma scoffs. "Some mother I am."

"I don't think I'm in a position to be giving advice on being an ideal mother, at this point," Ingrid shrugs, leaning back in her seat, "Does Henry know you're his mother?"

"Yeah," Emma replies. "Now."

"And what was his response?"

"He was happy," Emma says, in something like disbelief. "Here's the woman who abandoned him and gave him up and who he can probably tell is just an all around fucking mess and he was happy."

"You're not a mess," Ingrid corrects. "You're not. You're a hero, especially to him."

Emma rolls her eyes. "Some hero, especially to him. I don't think he would appreciate morally gray private detectives with no interpersonal skills."

"Morally gray," Ingrid repeats. "Please. I'm morally charcoal. You're the palest of silver."

"What, not going to defend my interpersonal skills?"

"Can I ask how many of members of my staff you told to _'fuck off'_ every time you break into my office?"

"I didn't break in this time," Emma points out. "But you've made your point. You need to get better staff, they're really bad at keeping people out of your office."

"You didn't come here to tell me all of this," Ingrid comments, idly, elbow on her desk and chin resting on her knuckles.

"To insult your lackeys?"

"No, to just tell me about Henry. I'm grateful you did, but I'm shocked you told me of all people, given the circumstances."

Emma exhales. "I came here because I need a lawyer."

Ingrid fills in the blanks. "So that you can adopt your son?"

Emma answers immediately. "Yes."

"Alright," Ingrid replies, calm and concise.

There's silence between the two of them for a few seconds.

"This is the part where you tell me I have no idea how to be a mother or how to take responsibility for as much as a goldfish," Emma supplies, self-deprecatingly.

"Hm," Ingrid says, shaking her head. "No. Here's the part where I tell you I'll support whatever decision you make, just like I did when you were seventeen. And if that decision is adopting Henry and getting custody of him, I'll fight tooth and nail to make that happen."

Emma feels a small, hopeful smile encroaching on her face, in spite of herself. "Who are you and what the hell have you done with my mother?"

Ingrid grins, wryly. "It's the same one, believe it or not. I just took a leave of absence for a while, is all."

Emma pauses, expression wistful. "It's nice to see her again."

Ingrid interrupts her just as she turns around to leave. "By the way, sheriff, _congratulations_."

-/-

She'd be depressed by how easily Henry's foster parents agree to her adopting him if she wasn't so relieved to have him. Ingrid tells her the entire thing is a cakewalk. And just like that, Henry is legally her son.

She panics and flounders, for a moment, when she first brings Henry to her place. He visits more and more as Ingrid gets closer and closer to getting Emma full custody, though, so by the time he actually moves in they're both almost used to it, almost used to each other.

Mother is a weird title to add to who she is, at first, but one she welcomes every time her kid grins at her.

Emma's apartment has an extra bedroom that's been collecting dust, thankfully, so the day she formally gets custody of him she and Henry go shopping while an overly excited David and Mary Margaret paint his new room.

("You like blue, right?" Mary Margaret asks Henry when David and her come into Emma's apartment with armfuls of paint and rollers from the local hardware store.

Henry can only nod excitedly and hug the both of them while they make a valiant attempt not to drop anything.)

He seems wondrous during the whole process (even just picking out a bedspread, which makes her tear up a little bit) and shit, if he's this impressed with her lackluster parenting skills thus far...

Emma has had him in her custody for a day and she's already wrapped around his finger. It's that easy.

-/-

Both Arthur and Albert have their hearings scheduled for a few months in the future. It isn't soon enough, for her tastes and she's sure the family of Billy's, but it's something. Emma was right about Kathryn, though, and the A.D.A who is going to be presenting the case to the grand jury - Ursula - is sure to get nothing less than an indictment. And, based off of the defense attorney the two of them hire that she's seen the women literally make dissolve into tears, they'll get a conviction, too.

(Apparently Ingrid has agreed to represent the Gust family pro bono for a civil lawsuit against Tolemac, Spencer, and the mayor. It's progress. small as it may be.)

-/-

It's a few weeks into being a sheriff that Emma slowly realizes she has no idea what the hell she's doing.

"We need to hire some new people," Emma mutters, head in her hands at her desk. "We were understaffed already and, granted, this department is now a hundred times better without Spencer and Tolemac, but between them and Peter getting fired, our numbers are dwindling."

"Peter was a miserable prick," Lancelot sighs, arms crossed, "I'm not too sorry to see him go. I do agree that we need more people, though."

"So what academy trained cops want to join a disgraced police force in a small town?"

Lancelot sighs, leaning his hip against the front of her desk and scanning the station contemplatively. "That's the billion dollar question."

Emma thumps her head against her desk.

"We still have some good cops, though. I mean, look at Robin and Marian. Look at Gwen."

Emma lifts up her head to grin at him. "You still like Gwen, don't you?"

Lancelot stiffens before quickly getting up to walk away from her desk. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm not here to deny that she's amazing and courageous and her hair smells like pomegranate, okay?" Emma teases with a grin. "But you've been harboring that crush for what must be over a year now. You had a thing for her when she got here right before I left and you still do to this day."

"I didn't ever say anything about how her hair smells," Lancelot rebuffs defensively.

Emma cocks her head to the side. "So you're not denying the crush, huh?"

"You're insufferable," he sighs, but the words have no bite.

"You know what's insufferable? Living a life of regret because you never told someone how you felt about them."

"And you would know all about that, wouldn't you?" he hums.

Emma stiffens.

Lancelot notices this, quickly. "I'm so sorry, Emma, I didn't mean to-"

"It's not about Graham," she assures him quickly. "I swear."

"Thank God," he breathes a sigh of relief. "Damn, well, who was it abo-"

Henry comes through the door just then and Emma gladly takes the perfect opportunity to evade the question.

"Henry!" Emma exclaims, coming up to hug him. "How was school?"

"The best," he says with a broad smile, "it was the best. Miss Blanchard showed us this really cool thing with a paper volcano."

Emma grins fondly at him. "Mary Margaret is keeping you kids busy, huh?"

(Yes, her sister-in-law is her son's teacher. It's convenient how that works out.)

David walks in a few seconds after, Henry's bag in his hands. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I honestly kind of miss this place."

Emma smirks at that, raising her eyebrows. "Of course you start missing it as soon as I get here. What's that saying about grass being greener?"

David gives her an exaggerated sigh. "Forgive me for wanting to work with my sister."

She laughs, shaking her head. "Thanks for picking him up, David,"

"It was no trouble," he assures her. "Honestly, I'm a little thankful to get out of the office. Regina's decor was...unsettling to say the least? We've been cleaning her office out."

"Oh," Emma frowns. "What was so unsettling about it?"

"We found drawers full of replica hearts," he says, voice going up an octave with how uncomfortable it clearly makes him. "They had names on them."

Emma winces and Lancelot groans.

"That's weird. That's really weird."

"You're telling me," David mutters. "Anyway, I should probably get back to work. Have a good day, you guys."

"You too!" Emma and Lancelot answer in synchronization.

"Is this Henry?" Gwen asks, pausing in her walk by Emma's office.

"Yup!" Henry replies, cheerfully. "Do you work with my mom?"

Gwen grins widely, kneeling down to meet Henry's eyes. "I do, actually."

Emma beams, not being subtle at all about pointing at them and mouthing _'she's good with kids, too!'_ if only just to bother Lancelot about it further.

Lancelot's hands cover his face as he quickly retreats from the situation. "That's, erm, my pager. I have a call. I have to leave."

"You're trying to pull that with the _Sheriff_?" Emma asks, incredulously.

"Yup," he replies, undaunted, and grabbing his coat.

Emma shakes her head as she laughs. "Suit yourself, DuLac!"

Maybe things are getting a little lighter, lately. Maybe _she's_ getting a little lighter. Emma has the son that plagued her thoughts all the years she spent without him. She has her job, one she's actually able to do without guilt plaguing her. Hell, Emma has even mended the mess of her familal relationships - she's closer with David than ever and at least making progress with Ingrid.

What more could she want?

-/-

Once Emma comes back for her night shift, Lancelot is singing an entirely different tune.

" _Sheaskedmeout,"_ he says, the words coming out all at once.

Emma raises an eyebrow. "You want to repeat that?"

"She, erm," Lancelot coughs, clearing his throat. "She asked me out. In front of people. To dinner. I said yes."

Emma gives him a high five so hard her hand stings. "I told you she had a thing for you, too!"

"And you had nothing to do with this?"

She shakes her head, a mischievous grin lighting her expression. "Absolutely nothing."

Lancelot squints. "Why do I get the feeling that you're lying?"

"Because I am."

"You played matchmaker," he accuses, "I wouldn't have expected that from you."

"Yeah, well, I'm full of surprises. And I'm the best boss ever."

"And the best boss ever," he adds with a grin, "Though your organizational skills drive me up the wall."

"It's not messy if I know where everything is." Emma defends herself, gesturing to the stacks on her desk.

"You and I both know that's a damn lie."

"Those are traffic stops, those are filed complaints, and those… I'm not sure what those are. I should look…"

"About telling people how you felt," Lancelot starts, a little reluctantly. "who were you…"

Emma can tell where he's going with this. She thinks of the voicemail she left, the one that she never got a response back from.

"Regretting not telling how I felt?" she offers, leaning against the brick and crossing her arms. "It's a long story."

"...Guyliner guy that helped you put up signs for Dave's campaign?"

She can't hold back a laugh at the name. " _Now_ who's messing in other people's business?"

He raises up his hands defensively. "Just returning the favor."

Emma shakes her head, her smile fading as she contemplates what to say, how to explain it. "Yeah, um, he left. It was my fault. I basically told him to go. Pushed him away, because that's what I'm good at. Much better at _that_ than I am at matchmaking."

"What did he say?" Lancelot asks, curiously. "When he left?"

"To take all the time I needed," she reveals, frowning.

"Maybe that's what he's doing," Lancelot suggests. "Taking the time he needs. That you need, too."

"Yeah," she sighs. "I doubt that."

-/-

It's eight in the morning on a Saturday when Emma hears a knock at the door.

Emma groans. She makes a note to herself to explain as candidly as possible to Mary Margaret what the concept of 'sleeping in' was. She's always been guilty of visits at the crack of dawn, and since Henry - early riser that he is - moved in Mary Margaret has only gotten worse about it. It's not as if she doesn't appreciate the thought, but Emma would maybe appreciate sleep more. She opens the door with the speech on her lips, ready to go.

She wasn't expecting the person at the other side of the door to be who it was.

Killian still looks the same, even after all the time they haven't spoken. His facial hair is a little thicker and his posture a little more tense (which is more explainable by his decision to come to her door after their last encounter than it is by the passage of time). It's only been a few weeks, but Emma - with everything that's happened in the meantime - feels like it's been years.

He gives her a small smile in greeting. It's still enough to make her feel a little exposed and defenseless.

"Killian," she greets anxiously unsure of what even to say, "I…"

"It's been a while, Swan," he replies, hands (prosthetic and flesh) jammed into the pockets of his jacket. "I hope I'm not intruding."

She never told him about Henry. Emma never told much of anyone about Henry, but now would be the time to do it with Killian. If her jumbled emotions and sharp edges weren't enough to deter him, the fact that she's now the mother of an eleven year old might be.

(And if it is, then he was never worth it in the first place, but that's not a line of thought she can afford right now.)

"Actually…"

As fate would have it, Henry chooses that exact moment to poke his head through the door, wiping the sleep out of his eyes and clad in his pajamas.

"Who are you?" Henry asks, in true eleven year old fashion.

The kid definitely inherited his sense of timing from her.

Killian looks a little surprised to see him, understandably. He looks as if he shakes the shock off quickly, though, meeting her eyes from some source of confirmation. Emma nods, unsure of what else to do. Much to her surprise, Killian then kneels to Henry's eye level. "Killian Jones, lad. It's nice to meet you."

He offers his hand out for Henry to shake. Henry accepts it instantly.

"I'm Henry."

"Well, it's nice to meet you Henry. Firm handshake," he commends with a broad smile. "I can already tell you're going to go far. I just have the one hand, see, so I have to make mine all the better to make up for it."

Killian looks up at Emma, a silent question in his eyes as to what he should do next.

Emma bites her lip. "You should come in. We need to talk."

"Aye," he nods, standing back up. The words aren't said accusingly, just as if he's stating a simple fact. "I think we do."

-/-

Henry busies himself with reading (she can't believe he's gotten to this point in his life without reading a single damn Harry Potter book, honestly) and Killian and Emma move themselves to her small kitchen to 'talk'.

Whatever that entails.

"Where have you been?" Emma asks, a little stiffly.

"Went to London, for a bit," Killian shrugs, though his gaze is much too intense to be casual. Not that this is a change of pace, truthfully. "My brother had some property over there and I figured I needed to clear my head. Couldn't think of a better place to do it. If I didn't reply to anything on my phone, it's because I didn't have service out there."

She nods, considering his words for a moment. "Do you miss it? England?"

"This place has been my home for almost as long as I can remember, Swan. I moved here when I was about twelve or thirteen," Killian shakes his head, waving off the thought. He meets her stare after a moment. "It helps that I'm finding Storybrooke has other charms worth staying around for."

Emma isn't sure what to say, to that. Her mouth goes dry and she remains stuck in place. All she can manage to do is gape at him, at loss for a witty reply. A few weeks pass and he's already right off the bat with his feelings.

"I reckon it won't surprise you that I have questions of my own about what happened in my absence," Killian adds, carefully.

"I had him when I was seventeen," she murmurs, eyes flitting to where Henry is reading on the couch. "It's a long, painful story, but I gave him up for adoption because I...I knew I couldn't be the mother he needed."

"You seem to be doing a fine job of it now." he says softly.

Emma scoffs. "I'm trying to, at least."

He nods in understanding.

Her eyes are still fixed on Henry. There's something about Killian - in all his earnestness and understanding - that makes her want to divulge more than she should. "You want to know how I met him? Really met him?"

"How?"

"Christmas Eve," she exhales, a little shakily, "this kid at Gold's tells me to make the most of the family I have. I see him there again, and he tells me about his foster families and I give him some speech about how you find your place in the world, your family, eventually."

Killian gives her a soft grin. "Isn't that precisely what you've done, Sheriff Swan?"

"You heard about that?" she asks, her voice an octave higher in surprise.

"You're a bit hard to miss, Swan. I reckon the mayor feels the same way. The only thing I evidently missed out on was the explanation of how you found your son again."

Her lips twitch. "I still haven't finished that story, by the way. I found out the kid was mine when he knocked on the door on my P.I. office and asked me to find his birth mom."

Killian's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "He did that?"

"Mhm."

He chuckles. "Oh, he's definitely yours then."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she rebuffs playfully.

"He's inherited your investigative skills and resourcefulness, to be sure," Killian says conversationally, gesturing to her and then Henry. "And judging by the stories you've just told me and the short time that I've met the lad, he has your heart."

"Not exactly one of my coveted characteristics," Emma scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Next you'll be saying my even temper or my endless supply of patience or my clean mouth."

Killian shakes his head slowly. "I meant what I said, Swan. You've a good heart, as much as you like to pretend you don't."

Emma almost smiles at that.

"It's one of the things I've found I quite admire about you, Emma," he adds, with the sincerity of his words burning in his gaze.

Emma finally leans up to hug him, arms tight around his neck. Killian props his chin on her shoulder as both of his arms move to encircle her waist. It feels warm and familiar and, damn, she's missed this.

"I missed you," she admits, a little quietly.

She can feel him smiling, though she can't see it. "I missed you as well, Swan. I don't think you know how much."

Emma squeezes her eyes shut. "I think I can guess."

They stay like that for a moment, just breathing each other in.

"Is he your boyfriend?" Henry asks curiously, entering the room and successfully interrupting the moment.

"No!" Emma immediately retorts defensively, withdrawing from Killian's embrace with a little reluctance. They step apart, but his hand and prosthetic linger on her elbows and her hands move to his chest in a gesture so automatic she can hardly notice it. "He is not my boyfriend."

Killian raises his eyebrows, but his tone makes it clear he's joking. "Careful, love. That level of passionate denial could hurt a man's feelings."

"You're not my boyfriend," she says again, brushing her hair out of her face with her hand and stepping back a little further. His touch leaves her arms and she misses it, a little. Emma knows him. He won't make her uncomfortable if he can help it, but if Killian really wants something more…

She blows out a puff of air, straightening her posture. Emma can't think about that, right now.

Killian puts his hand up defensively. "Wasn't denying that I wasn't, Swan."

Henry scrunches up his face. "Isn't that a double negative? We just learned about those in school, they're kind of confusing."

"Smart la- leave your poor mother alone," Killian replies good naturedly.

Emma lets out a sigh of relief.

"I've got to get to work, soon. They're a little harsher with me now that I've taken that vacation of sorts. It was an honor to meet you, young Master Swan." Killian says affectionately, dropping to one knee to get to eye level with him once again.

"You're pretty cool, Mr. Jones."

He ruffles his hair. Emma can't believe she's never found out he's this good with kids (her kid). "It's Killian to you, lad."

Henry grants him a small smile and a nod and, god damn it, now Killian has got him, too. Her feelings are so jumbled right now they're impossible to make sense of, and this isn't helping matters. At all.

Killian stands up to face Emma, once more.

"I'll be in touch," he promises.

The corners of her lips twitch as she reaches for his hand, instinctively twining his fingers with hers. "Good."

He stares at their joined hands for a few seconds, transfixed, before he leaves.

-/-

That isn't the only interesting encounter she has that day.

"This is a weird question," Ruby, the girl from 4B, starts cautiously. A load of laundry is in her hands when Emma sees her in the hallway of their building, "but you're the new sheriff, right?"

"Yeah," Emma replies. It still sounds foreign to hear, but it's somehow become her reality. "That's me."

"I heard you guys were considering hiring new deputies?"

"Oh?" she replies, now much more invested in this conversation. "Are you considering joining the force?"

Ruby shakes her head quickly. "No, no, no. Nothing like that for me. It's just my girlfriend, Mulan. She used to be on the police force back in her home state, but she moved in with me a few months ago. Mulan has been working at a private security firm in the meantime, but now that she feels like this town's police force is a little less…."

"Corrupt and problematic?" Emma offers, only wincing a little bit.

Ruby gives her a half-hearted laugh. "Yeah. That. She mentioned she'd be interested in applying to work for you guys."

"Tell her to send her resume in. We need all the help we can get."

"I will." Ruby smiles.

"I gotta get to work," Emma curses, looking down at the time on her phone. Ruby nods in understanding, but if Emma has an opportunity like this for another deputy she needs to take it. "Again, please get her to apply! You should hear back from me soon if she does."

"I will," Ruby promises, swinging the laundry basket in her hands a little. "And thank you!"

-/-

As it turns out, Mulan is a hell of an addition to the team. With years of experience under her belt and military training from when she was younger, Emma is convinced the woman could easily kick her ass without breaking a sweat. Mulan might even be too qualified for the job, but she happily takes it all the same.

Mulan cites something like _'being able to make a difference_ '.

As cheesy as it sounds, it's kind of exactly what they need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: How do you guys feel about this chapter? Let me know in the reviews!


	8. public opinion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: First of all, thank you guys so, so, so much for the incredible feedback. It means the world to me. It's so weird to think that there's only one chapter left to post after this. Hopefully it finishes strong! Warnings for references to death, an attempted murder, etc.

For a few weeks, things seem to truly be working out. Emma, against all apparent odds, loves her job more than she's ever loved any job she's ever had. Her team is amazing and the pay is a big improvement from her prior gig. David and Mary Margaret invite her to dinner on a regular basis and she actually comes, bringing Henry along with her. As far as Henry goes, she couldn't ask for a better kid. They go for ice cream, to the zoo, and all of the other things that Ingrid always used to do with her when she was younger. Being a mom is sometimes hair-pulling and stressful, but at the end of the day Emma can't believe she went so long without him.

Her and Killian have been edging into something like a friendship, falling into one as if it's the most natural thing in the world. It's not as if there aren't still the longing looks and obvious attraction between the two of them anymore. It's just that Emma can't afford to take that risk (again) yet. He seems to get that without her saying anything, thanks to the non-verbal communication they seem to have. It's much better than their verbal communication skills with each other, anyway.

He comes to her place and sometimes they go to his, both promising movies and lunch and other things that Normal Friends do. Killian and Henry get along like a house on fire, which is another reason that she can't afford to rewind and start again like nothing has changed. A lot has, even over such a short span of time. They both have. Killian is less agitated by revenge and Emma has been introduced to a lot more stabilizing factors than strained family dynamics and a general disdain for the universe.

(But sometimes those goodbye hugs linger for a little too long and his hand strokes through her hair and hers falls into the curve of his back and shoulder, resting on the familiar planes of his body and -

Maybe feelings haven't changed as much as circumstances have.)

-/-

But, of course, Emma isn't allowed peace for too long. Not even when she's driving her kid to school.

These incidents never really time up great for her, even if she isn't sure if there's ever a good time for someone to shoot a bullet into your goddamn car.

Emma hears the shot ring out and ducks to shield Henry's body with hers. She feels the glass on her back and thanks whatever higher power is out there that she wears her leather jacket so damn often.

She hears the sound of someone running shortly after.

"Damn it," Emma mutters, slowly edging her body up to look out of her - now ruined - window. "They ran away."

"Mom?" Henry whispers, eyes wide and fearful. "What's going on?"

Emma exhales, a little shakily, and grabs his shoulders in what she hopes is a reassuring gesture. "Stay here and hide until you hear Elsa come, okay? Do not let anyone see you."

After scanning the area to make sure it was a lone shooter, she quickly texts Elsa the address with instructions to get Henry the hell out of there. Cop sirens would chase the guy off even further and Elsa is closer, anyway.

"Where are you going?" Henry asks, concerned.

"I'm going to deal with what just happened," she mutters grimly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Be safe, kiddo."

Emma leaves the car before he has a chance to reply.

She should win mother of the year, really, almost getting him killed so soon after she gets custody of him. Maybe she was right when she was seventeen - Emma has no idea how to be a mother, even at 28. All she knows how to do is get people hurt.

But, goddamn it, if she's all Henry has she'll give him everything she has. He deserves nothing less than that.

It's that thought that motivates her to run after where she heard the shooter flee. She winds up in a desolated alley, the suspected shooter at the end of it.

The guy is shaking and terrified, gun still in his hand and eyeing his surroundings with manic anxiety.

Emma groans.

She knows an addict when she sees one.

"What kind of person shoots into a car that he knows a kid is in?" Emma asks rhetorically, hands firm on her gun.

The man doesn't respond, just stares at her and shakes.

Emma sighs in exasperation. "Drop the gun. I will when you will, alright?"

"You don't understand," he mutters, as if to himself. "You don't know."

There's a tense pause between the two of them for a minute.

"A desperate one," Emma finishes, "I asked you what kind of person tries to pull that kind of shit and the answer is a desperate one. Gold sent you, didn't he?"

The man nods, wordlessly.

The gun clatters to the ground. Emma breathes a sigh of relief and puts hers in her holster.

"Are there any more of you?"

"No."

He's telling the truth.

"My son," he whispers the words, barely audible. "My son is dead."

"Yeah, well," Emma replies stoically. "That doesn't mean you come after mine."

"How old is he?" the man wonders aloud.

"Eleven," she replies, voice hard. "His name is Henry. He loves superhero comics. His favorite color is green. You almost put a fucking bullet in his head. Anything else you want to know?"

"I just want to see my son," he says, with a sob. "This is the only way. I sold everything - the house, my car, and my shop. I have nothing left. Just him."

"And Gold told you that you could see him as much as you wanted if you came after me," she finishes, grimly.

"His name was August," he explains with a desolate stare. "He was about the age of your boy. He died in a car accident two years ago."

"You must have been pretty close. Any other family?"

"No. Just him."

Emma's expression hardens. "Then you should know damn well that Gold's fucking hologram isn't your son."

Her phone vibrates and Emma lets out the breath she's been holding. Elsa came. Henry will be safe.

At the sound, the man becomes more startled and twitches as if he's going to make a break for it.

"Gold won't get you your son back," Emma states, leaning against the brick of one of the buildings as if she doesn't care if he runs or not. "He can't. No one can. Don't fuck up your son's memory any more than you already have. What you can do is help me make sure that no one else loses a son like you have."

"You don't lose your son," he amends, a little brittle.

"Yeah, as you can imagine, I'd like my eleven year old to be bullet free," she replies dryly. "And Ashley Boyd wanted her daughter not to have a noose over her neck because Gold had her as strung out as he has you. And I'm sure Gold's wife wanted to not be callously murdered."

The information is new to him, judging by how his face grows all the paler.

"I didn't know he was in there," the man says, "your son. I was just told to kill you or he'd kill my son."

Emma groans. "You can't kill someone who is already dead."

He frowns.

"What's your name?" she asks.

"Marco," he sighs. "Marco Otteppeg."

"Well, you have a choice here, Marco: do you want to be the man your son would be proud of or keep on living like a zombie with his mirage?"

She can only pray he'll make better choices than Victor.

(And yes, she's still pretty pissed about that.)

His mouth parts, slightly, as he considers it.

"Okay," he mumbles.

"Okay, you're going to try and kill me again or okay, you're going to do the right thing?"

"I'm going to do the right thing," he says, and she can't hide she's relieved by the reveal.

Emma pockets his gun, picking it up from the middle of the street. "Come with me. A cell is a better place to sleep in than the street. We'll talk after I make sure my son is safe. I'm going to have to handcuff you because you _did_ just try to fucking kill me, but I'm sure you understand that."

"I do." he says, shame clear in his voice.

-/-

They get to where her car is before being met by a befuddled Mulan.

"Oh, good, you're already here," Emma notes.

"I came after I heard reports of gunshots," Mulan says, gesturing to the bullet ridden Bug. "What the hell happened?"

"Mr. Otteppeg here," she says, pointing to the man next to her, "needs to practice better gun safety. I think the thing is unregistered, on top of it. Thank God no one was in the car."

Marco looks at her, then at Mulan. "No."

Emma raises an eyebrow at him. "No, what?"

He shakes his head. "No, I tried to kill her. I tried to kill her because Robert Gold told me to."

Mulan gapes.

"I'm doing the right thing and turning myself in." Marco says, resolutely. "August deserves better. I've done enough."

Mulan looks to her for some kind of guidance. "Sherriff?"

"He confessed a lot sooner than I thought he would. Things are a lot more fucked up in this town than they seem," she says in a deadpan.

"Yeah, I got that," Mulan mutters. "Jesus fucking Christ."

Emma really hopes Mulan was serious about the making a difference thing.

-/-

Emma gives Mulan strict instructions to keep Marco in holding until she can make sure her son is safe.

Elsa looks, understandably, stressed when she opens the door to her apartment.

"Thank you so much," Emma says without prompting, wrapping her arms around Elsa in a tight hug. "You have no idea what this means to me. I am so sorry."

"I get a text saying your car has been shot, everyone is okay, you have to chase the suspect, and asking me to pick up Henry," Elsa replies, eyebrows almost raised to her forehead. "I reacted as quickly as physically possible. I'm glad no one gave me speeding tickets."

"I would have made sure you wouldn't have to pay them, anyway," Emma replies, leaning back to look around the apartment. "Where is Hen-"

Emma doesn't get the chance to finish the sentence before Henry bounds up to join them, wrapping his arms tightly around Emma in greeting.

She breathes a sigh of relief, reciprocating the hug. "I'm so sorry, kid."

"You were saving the day," Henry replies easily, as if it's the most obvious response in the world. "That's what heroes do."

Emma just shakes her head.

-/-

Elsa offers to watch Henry while Emma goes to figure out what to do with Marco.

(She really needs to send her cousin flowers, or something. The woman is nothing less than a saint.)

She walks into the interrogation room, where Marco sits with his hands splayed on the table. "How do you communicate with Gold?"

Marco pulls a tiny aluminum bar out of his pocket. "This."

"A phone?" she asks, raising her eyebrows.

He nods. "It's essentially what it is. Gold mentioned he had these specifically made for, well, to avoid any interception."

"Can you call him and tell him the job is done?" she asks, pressing him further.

"Yes," he replies, curtly. "I can."

Emma pulls out her phone and Marco looks a little concerned.

"I don't know if that would-"

"Relax, this isn't for you," she reassures him, rolling her eyes. "I want to record the phone call."

He sighs, his eyes flicking to the bar in his hands with something like dread.

"Are you sure you want me to do this?"

"Absolutely positive," Emma nods. "Call him. Does the thing have a speakerphone option?"

Marco nods. Then, he presses the button to call.

When the ringing stops, there's nothing but breathing on the other line. It's more than a little unsettling, but, judging by Marco's lack of reaction, not uncommon.

"The job is done," Marco mutters.

Emma raises her eyebrows and gestures for him to elaborate. Vagueness in a police recording isn't exactly something that will hold up in court.

"I shot the Sheriff, just as you asked," he amends carefully, looking to Emma. "Is there anything else you needed from me?"

She nods, satisfied.

Gold's voice comes over the line, finally. "No, that will be all. Thank you for your service. I assure you, your loyalty will not go unrewarded."

It may be inappropriate for Emma to grin right then, but she does all the same.

This is all she needs. Acknowledgement that he did it. That he set this up. Attempted murder carries a sentence of at least a few decades, and Gold is in his fifties. It may as well be a life sentence. More satisfying than paying a penalty in civil court and no matter how influenced the jury is in his favor, you can't deny recordings.

"Thank you, Marco," she tells him, leaning over to shake his hand when he hangs up. "You did the right thing. Our D.A should be approaching you with a plea deal soon, but in the meantime..."

He shakes his head. "Gold or not, I deserve to pay for what I've done. I almost killed you."

Emma sighs, feeling sympathetic for the guy despite the circumstances. Addiction does terrible, shitty things to people. Even, maybe especially, addiction to a makeshift drug for grief. "You weren't in your right mind, not really. I'm sure that's going to be one of the things Kathryn considers."

Marco still looks haunted.

-/-

When she gets out of the interrogation room and gets Marco back into his cell, she's a little surprised to find David waiting for her in her office. His arms are crossed as he leans on her desk.

"I take it you heard the news," Emma starts a little awkwardly, tucking her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

"That Gold tried to kill you?" David asks, his tone harsher than normal. "Yeah, that's kind of hard to miss."

Emma nods, staring at her boots. "I have to go after him. I _can_ go after him, now."

"He's the most powerful man in town," David tells her in disbelief. Emma is a little surprised at the sudden admission of worry. "He tried to kill you, Emma."

"Says the mayor," she retorts dryly. "He's going to try again if I don't stop him."

He sighs, apparently shaking himself back to his normal, can-do attitude. She was worried there, for a minute, at the sudden shift of character. Given her reaction to him losing the sheriff race, though, she can't exactly begrudge a two minute misstep. " _We._ "

"What?"

"If we don't stop him," he corrects, looking determined. "If you think I'm not going to be behind you every step of the way in this, you'd be wrong."

Emma looks aghast at the prospect. "I can't have a target on your back, too."

"It already is, I'm your brother," he comments matter-of-factly. "We're family, Emma. Family sticks together."

Emma shakes her head quickly. "He already came after me and almost killed Henry. I don't know if I'll be able to protect you, too."

David isn't having it. "I can protect myself. We've had this discussion, Emma, I have to protect you and this town too."

There's no point in arguing with him.

-/-

She wants to talk to one person, though, before she goes any further with this. Someone who would get it.

Emma knocks on the door of their apartment, a little cautiously.

"Swan," Killian exhales when he opens the door, looking nothing less than delighted to see her.

"I would've come sooner, but my car is kind of bullet ridden," she shrugs casually, pushing past him into his apartment.

His eyebrows skyrocket on his forehead. "Bullet ridden?"

"Guy working for Gold may have tried to kill me, but I have good news. Great news, actually," she says flippantly, flopping down on his couch. Emma is too concerned with the task at hand to cope with her feelings of terror from earlier. Great coping mechanism? Probably not, but she's never been known for dealing with trauma in the healthiest of ways.

Killian looks understandably perplexed at her offhand attitude. "...you were almost killed?"

"I'm fine. So is Henry." she emphasizes.

He leans down to examine her carefully, hand ghosting over her face. "Swan, you were almost shot. Gold did this? I'm going to kill h-"

"I said," she grumbles, grabbing his hand. "That I have good news."

"After you said that you were nearly killed." he adds, moving to sit next to her.

"And because of that I can arrest Gold."

His jaw drops. "How?"

The corners of Emma's lips twitch. "The guy may be technology focused, but apparently he can't grasp concepts like recorded conversations."

Killian pauses for a moment, as if to absorb the new information. "And the man who was working for him?"

"A dad who lost his kid when he was too young," Emma explains grimly, "I encouraged him to do the right thing and he did."

He raises an eyebrow. "Encouraged?"

Emma rolls her eyes. "I gave him my own version of a pep talk. I don't think it would be David approved, but it did the job fine."

"Well, then, what are you waiting for?" he asks, tilting his head towards the door. "Gold isn't going to arrest himself."

"I just...I just needed to say it." Emma mutters, shaking her head. "Before I go there, I just needed…"

"Encouragement?" Killian supplies. "Well, here it is: go be a hero, Swan."

And that's enough.

-/-

Gold Incorporated is a lot less intimidating to walk through when she knows she'll be able to put handcuffs on its owner. She doesn't hear the chatter at the front desk, the crying of the patrons, the sound of her boots hitting the floor. All Emma can hear is the thudding of her heartbeat in her ears.

Emma doesn't pause before opening the door to where Gold is.

"Robert Gold," she announces, striding towards him from the other side of his tacky office. "You're under arrest for the attempted murder of...me. You have a right to remain silent. Everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be provided to you. Do you understand these rights as I've read them to you?"

The click of the cool metal on his wrists is immensely satisfying.

"Excuse me?" he asks in disbelief.

"You're under arrest for trying to kill some woman named Emma Swan by bribing a man to do it for you," she explains with a smirk, gloating just a little. "I told you that you'd remember my name, _asshole_."

"You must be mistaken, Sheriff," Gold shakes his head, obviously trying to keep the cool demeanor that makes him so intimidating to so many.

Emma is undisturbed, "We have a confession from you."

She pulls up her phone and plays the tape.

"Sound familiar?"

Depositing him in the back of the squad car is even more fulfilling than she thought it would be.

-/-

Of course, it's not that easy. Even if Gold is currently sitting in a cell, she still has to deal with his lawyer.

And of course, it's Regina Mills. Apparently she was a defense attorney long before she was a corrupt mayor. She strides into the station like she owns the place and sets her briefcase on Emma's desk like it belongs to her.

"Good to see you're able to find employment after being ousted," Emma mutters upon seeing Regina. "Lawyer seems right up your alley - lying soullessly isn't even a pastime so much as a lifestyle for you now, right?"

Regina seems unruffled. "You should ask your mother about that. I started out as one of her interns, after all."

Emma frowns. She didn't know that. "Well, I know my mother's tricks. I'm willing to bet I'll know yours, too. Gold isn't letting us question him without your presence, which was...expected. Do you need directions to the interrogation room while we bring him there?"

Regina shakes her head brusquely. "There will be no need for that. May I ask what you're holding my client on?"

"Taped confession," Emma answers sharply, sitting down at her desk. "Cheering on the man he hired to kill me over the phone when he notified Gold that he supposedly shot me."

Regina scoffs at that, which eventually graduates into full on laughter.

This isn't usually a method Ingrid used. Emma furrows her brow, unsure of how to respond. "Weird trick, it's not working."

Regina takes a break from laughing to answer the question breathlessly, wiping tears from under her eyes because she apparently cackled that much. "Oh, you honestly believe that will work? That's even better."

"Maine is a one party consent state for audio recording," Emma shrugs. "We had consent from the other party."

Regina raises her eyebrows. "Is it? Because, just a few months ago, it seems our state legislature begged to differ. A bill was passed to ensure that phone recordings were only legal if they had consent from both parties."

Obviously, she missed that news.

"Gold," Emma states in realization. "Gold lobbied for it, didn't he?"

"Frankly, that doesn't matter. What matters is what's law is law. The recording is not admissible if its acquired illegally. You have to release my client," Regina says with a smirk. "you seem to be missing any evidence to hold him on."

The sound of Regina's heels clacking as she walks away doesn't even shake Emma out of her reverie as she stares at the wall in front of her in pure shock.

-/-

Gold just looks gilb when Emma notifies him that he's been released.

Emma resists the urge to hit him with something.

"You just made this public," Emma says stoically, hands shaking as she opens up the door to his cell. "I don't think that will work out well for you."

Gold only straightens his suit as he stands up from the cot, not concerned in the least with Emma's warning. "I'm a beloved man who gives people the opportunity to talk to the people they miss the most. You're just a sheriff picked by her older brother to do the job."

"And you tried to put a bullet in my head and almost got my son killed in the process," Emma replies harshly, jaw tightening. "Do you really think I'm just going to lay down and take that?"

"Frankly, Miss Swan," he calls over his shoulder as he walks out, "I don't give a damn what you think happened. You have no evidence to corroborate your fantastical claims, after all. Just be thankful I'm not charging you for breaking and entering for your little stunt, earlier. Just so long as you know who will win these little spars of ours."

She grits her teeth as she watches him leave, powerless to do anything else. Emma can't believe she's let him get away after getting those close. She can't believe much of anything about today, really. Henry almost gets killed and Gold walks out of the cell she finally managed to wrangle him into.

All because she couldn't keep up with the law, thanks her to hiatus from law enforcement. This is her fault. Emma has no one to blame but herself.

-/-

David, Lancelot, Mulan, and Killian are waiting for her when she walks back into her office, all wearing matching expressions of understanding. The fact that they all seems so supportive almost makes it worse.

She wants them to be angry with her, wants them to hate her, wants them to chide her for making such a novice fucking mistake. Emma wants David to say he regrets ever suggesting she be sheriff in the first place, Lancelot to say she's ruined all their hard work, Mulan to say she's a shitty example for police work and that she's tempted to quit so she doesn't have to work with her, and Killian to say she was right when she came to his doorstep all those months ago saying she was a miserable fucking person who only got innocent people killed.

More people will die, inevitably one of those people will be her. It could even be Henry, Gold has shown he doesn't really give a damn if it is. It could be David, it could be Lancelot, it could be Elsa, it could be Anna, it could be Kristoff, it could be Gwen, it could be Mulan, it could be Killian, it could…

Emma tells herself that she won't cry in front of them when she sits down at her desk. She tells herself that she'll give them some speech about the bad guys winning temporary victories and the good guys winning permanent ones, one like David would give. That they'll get Gold, just not today.

But all she can do is put her head to the desk and cry with her hands covering her face. She feels a hand, presumably Killian's based off feeling of the cool metal of his rings, run up and down her back soothingly. Emma is too distraught to protest the gesture of comfort.

(It's not her proudest moment.)

"Next time we'll be ready," is all Mulan says when she breaks the silence, fire burning in her eyes when Emma, face tearstained, finally looks up from her hands.

For someone so new, she's picked this up quickly. It's shorter than the speech Emma had mentally prepared and failed to execute, but it's better.

"Yeah," Emma replies, voice breaking with anger. "We will be."

-/-

It starts when she goes grocery shopping later that day.

Emma is still angry. Emma is still pissed. Angry and pissed people still have to buy milk so their kids can have cereal, as it turns out. She's mad and she's determined, feeling confident that at the very least people will hear whispers of what kind of person Gold really is. There are strength in numbers, after all. The situation is still far from ideal, but the world isn't ending yet.

She whirls around when someone taps her on the shoulder in the dairy isle.

"You're the sheriff, right?" a middle-aged woman asks her. She looks like she's straight from her kids' soccer practice, with short hair and a handbag clutched close to her waist.

"Yup," Emma replies curtly. Emma really isn't in the mood to listen to banal complaints today. "Can I help you?"

"You're a bitch, you know that?"

Emma raises her eyebrows, a little incredulous. "Excuse me?"

"Accusing Gold of attempted murder?" the woman mutters furiously, simmering with rage and narrowing her eyes. "What happens to my husband when I can't visit him anymore after you try to destroy Gold's company?"

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Emma replies darkly, taking a step back.

"I do. You're trying to take people's loved ones away from them because you're a bitter, selfish person." the woman accuses vitriolically, edging closer and closer to Emma as if she's tempted to send Emma to hologram-land herself.

"Your husband is dead," Emma almost shouts, lifting her hands in front of her defensively. "How about you fucking accept that instead of taking it out on me?"

Emma walks out of the store a little shaken. Going public with what Gold has done hasn't worked out for one exchange with a random person, so what? Once people realize that he's a horrible human being and his company is bullshit, they're bound to side with her. It only makes sense.

It isn't until she gets home that she realizes she forgot to even grab the milk. She sighs.

-/-

The headline of the paper the next morning reads _"SHERRIF SWAN ACCUSES STORYBROOKE'S HERO OF ATTEMPTED MURDER"_.

It's nice to see that they're trying not to stay biased in all of this.

Storybrooke's fucking hero - give her a break.

Emma reads the article because she hates herself and wants to torture herself further (no one reads print media these days, right?). Included is a lengthy interview with Gold - which takes up almost an entire page. He drones on and on about how he just wanted to bring peace to the city by reconnecting them with their loved ones and how her allegations were a conspiracy designed to make her seem more powerful by targeting the most famous man in town. It's because Storybrooke's police department is so weak, you see, now. They have to make up for all the power they seem to be lacking, these days.

What, with all the murdering they're not doing.

Killian's name even gets brought up as a co-conspirator who was obsessed with Gold's wife and is now illicitly teaming up with the sheriff as revenge. And Emma, the masterful seductress, is apparently able to get Killian to act on her every whim by having him frame Gold for shooting into her car and paying off Ottepeg to do it. Killian is a dock worker and Emma was a private eye barely making ends meet turned cop, so how they apparently afforded this bribe isn't clear. David is in on it too, because he's unable to refuse his sister of anything. That evidently includes help in framing poor Mr. Gold.

All he ever wanted to do was help people and now the big bad woman is trying to take him down for being too damn popular! It sounds like the world's lamest action movie plot. She'd be more angry if she didn't laugh through half of it.

(Judging by the texts she gets, this is a common sentiment.

MARY MARGARET (7:30 AM): Hey, Emma, can you manipulate your brother with your evil persuasive powers to take out the garbage this morning?

LANCELOT (8:03 AM): Who do I call to get that cool bullet effect in my window? Obviously Gold is propping up your new successful side business.

MARIAN (8:14 AM): Did you hear about Storybrooke's new Lord and Savior Robert Gold? He can talk to dead people! I think this is really all the proof we need, Emma.

ELSA (8:57 AM): We don't talk for a few weeks and you suddenly become a succubus? Teach me your ways!

KILLIAN (9:40 AM): I feel genuinely robbed of all of these seduction techniques I've been missing out on. All this work to frame such a nice, wholesome man like Robert Gold and this is what I get in return? Will the struggles never end for me, Swan?

David is a little less amused. He calls her up and goes on a twenty minute tirade against Gold. It's therapeutic for the both of them.)

And this bothers her to an extent, it really does. It's not like she enjoys having her face printed on the front page of the local newspaper as a liar (and an implied promiscuous one because Gold is nothing if but a consistent misogynist), but she can push through this. Her friends have her back. Her family has her back.

What more could she need?

And this mentality works for a few hours, it really does. Emma is able to spend her day off in something like peace - staying inside with a warm comforter some hot chocolate. Gold can try all he wants, but he'll never be able to stop the truth from coming out. All the money and influence in the world can't stop her.

Her breaking point comes when Henry comes home from school with a bruise on his face.

"Jesus, Henry," Emma exclaims as soon as he walks in, kneeling in front of him to examine the mark and carefully ghost her fingers over it. "What happened?

"Um," he pauses, trying to hide how upset he is. He's stupidly brave, her kid. "Aaron said that he visits his mom every weekend thanks to Gold. And he was mad that my mom tried to stop him."

Emma pales immediately, the blood draining from her face and dread filling the pit of her stomach. "I need to call the principal, the school, the _something_ …"

"He doesn't know that it's not real," Henry assures her. "With my other mom, I could tell it wasn't really her. It's like...Santa Claus or something. Aaron doesn't know that."

Emma frowns, thumbing at his cheek. "Unfortunately, kid, this isn't like Santa. More than just kids believe in Gold and what he does. A lot of people don't seem to realize it's not real."

"It's not their fault," Henry mumbles, looking at his feet. "It's just a lot scarier to see them as not real than it is to see them as real."

Her kid is really fucking wise, sometimes.

And he's already had to grow up way too fast. Now, she's making it even worse.

"You hit the nail on the head, kiddo," she murmurs, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear. "Some people just can't let go."

She can't tear her eyes away from the bruise on his face for the life of her.

Emma is his mother. She's supposed to keep him away from harm, not push him towards it because she wants to play hero. She can't keep doing this to him - almost getting him killed and getting him beaten up on the goddamn playground.

Gold was right.

You don't need to do the job yourself if everyone else is already turned against your target. In the poll of public opinion, Gold has already won. Fear is on his side, and what do people fear more than losing the people they love most?

And that, at the end of the day, is more powerful and insidious than his money, his political influence, or even his apparent assassins could ever be.

She can't keep doing this. Emma has other people to think of, now.

-/-

She walks into the station later that night, eyes red rimmed and posture slumped.

"Emma," Lancelot frowns, taking in her disheveled appearance with concern. "What's wrong? I told you I'd take over the shift tonight."

She sighs, biting her lip and keeping her gaze on the tile. It's a bit of deja-vu, from the last time she quit. After her mother won her case, she didn't hesitate for long before telling Albert - without mincing words - that she was done with this bullshit and injustice and stormed out without a second glance.

Emma picked up the job of bail bonds not long after. She figured it beat waitressing, and this - finding people - at least was something she was moderately good at. Then came private investigation on top of it, because it turns out that bail bonds wasn't the most reliable of incomes. Private investigation wasn't, either, but combined it was at least salvageable. The power could be kept on and she could pay her phone bill.

Emma resigned herself to cynicism, a familiar and well-traveled path, quickly. Her job wasn't moral or glamorous or anything else, it was a _job_. A shitty person dealing with shitty people in order for her to pay bills. That's all it was to her. She ignored David's calls, moved out of her apartment, and became the person she did.

And she'll do it again if that means Henry is safe.

"You'd be better at this than I am, anyway," she mumbles, pulling her badge from her jeans and pressing it into his hands.

Lancelot furrows his eyebrows. "Emma, what are yo-"

"Congratulations, Sheriff," Emma says, her morose expression not lending itself to any trace of enthusiasm. "Don't fuck it up like I did."

He shakes his head, looking concerned. "Is this about the article? Emma, you know you can't listen to him. All he is is some rich prick with a megaphone - you're better than him, Emma. You're smarter. You're tougher. And I know for damn sure that you can bring him back here in cuffs and make sure they stay on."

Emma shuts her eyes, too exhausted to even argue with him. "This isn't about me. You have to get that."

And for once, it isn't. It's about Henry. It's about David and Mary Margaret. It's about Killian and Elsa. It's even about Lancelot and Gwen and Marian and hell, even about her mother.

They're not invincible and they are at risk so long as she stays here. Emma isn't a hero, no matter what delusions they may hold. She can't save them. All she can do is prevent them from getting hurt as much as she can, even if it's her presence that ends up hurting them. Emma can't make things any better. All she can do is try her best to make sure they don't get much worse.

Lancelot can only stare after as she strides out of the building, head down and hands crammed into the pockets of her jacket.

It's better this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading! Feedback makes me really happy. Though you probably aren't happy with me about now, in which case, you can put that in your review maybe?


	9. undo the storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is it, guys. The last chapter. I'm kind of both happy and sad? I'm really going to miss writing this and I hope you've enjoyed reading this. First off, let me thank Steph - without who this RIDICULOUSLY WEIRD fic would seriously not exist and who encouraged the hell out of me to write and finish it. Ella and Amber are both betaing, proofreading, angels. The grammar would be atrocious, sentences would be unfinished, and who the hell knows what else would be wrong with this fic if I didn't have them. Then, I want to thank every one of you who has read, reviewed, and reblogged this fic. Seriously, it means so much.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

She spends the rest of the night packing like there's no tomorrow. Emma doesn't really have a plan on where they'll go, but she has some money saved up. They'll figure it out. She has to, or else who the hell knows what could happen next. Her shattered car window is replaceable. Her kid's life? Isn't.

They just can't stay here. And, well, if she leaves Gold and his brainwashed zombies (an unfair label - sure - but she's panicked and exhausted) will hopefully be satisfied enough to leave everyone the fuck alone. The thought is what keeps her going, what keeps her shoving clothes and dishware and whatever the hell she has into boxes. Before, when she was the type to cut and run, she wouldn't even pack before moving on to the next place. Maybe it's some small form of progress that she can at least do _this_ , now.

She jolts at the sound of a door creaking open.

"What are you doing?" Henry asks, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when he walks into the living room in the middle of the night. She must have woken him up moving the dishware - the sound of it clanging at two in the morning likely wasn't ideal for the sleeping patterns of an eleven year old.

Emma pauses her frenetic packing and bites her lip, unsure of how to reply. She has to tell him the truth. "Packing. We're leaving. Go back to bed."

He wakes up pretty quickly after that, becoming rapidly more alert. "We're leaving this apartment?"

"We're leaving this town," she says, resolutely. "We're going to leave here and we're not going to look back."

"Why?" he asks, so innocently it sends pangs to her chest.

She can still see the damn bruise on his face.

"Because," she pauses to collect herself, the image of Martha Gust playing in her head like a film reel that can't stop mourning the loss of her son. Killed too young, she's never going to get to see him again. Marco and the son he lost, who drove himself insane in hopes to see some figment of him again. Emma could never see Henry again. The stress of it all is making tears collect in her eyes and she squeezes them shut to keep them from falling, taking in a shuddering breath before finishing her sentence. "I'm your mother. I can't be reckless. I can't be selfish. I need to keep you safe above everything else."

"I'm safe here," he says, so sincerely it breaks the damn levy and she can't hold back a sob.

"No, you're not, kid," she says through a hiccup, leaning down to eye-level with him and softly brushing his hair off of his forehead. "You're not safe here. Not as long as Gold is out here and he's coming after me. He doesn't care if he hurts you too. I can't let that happen."

He shakes his head, feverently. "You're giving him what he wants."

"I'm keeping you safe." she corrects, wiping under her eyes with a heavy sigh. "Go back to bed, kid. We're leaving in the morning."

He opens his mouth to argue with her, but eventually sags and heads back to his bedroom.

Henry may hate her for this. The thought makes her sick, but the thought of something happening to him makes her sicker.

-/-

Emma finally gets everything close to all packed up a few hours later. It's not dawn yet, but it's getting close to there. They'll have enough time to leave and book a hotel. Henry can catch up on his sleep in the car.

She still has to get the window repaired, but she'll deal with that once they get going. Maybe they'll go to Portland - it's far enough away to establish a safe distance from Gold and close enough that maybe David, Mary Margaret, and Elsa can come visit every now and then. They might forgive her for suddenly leaving without a goodbye. She's not hopeful enough to think Killian would. Emma suppresses the thought with a shake of her head, redirecting her focus to the task at hand.

It's time for them to go.

"Henry, wake up." she says, knocking on his door.

She's only met with silence.

Emma opens the door with a frown. She can see the outline of his body under a blanket, but he seems to be ignoring her.

She sighs in exasperation. "I know you're upset about leaving, but this is really for the best."

Still no response.

Emma frowns, moving to sit beside him on the bed. "The silent treatment? Really, kid?"

Something isn't right. She moves the comforter off the bed and is only met with a lump of pillows. Lead hits the bottom of her stomach and Emma can feel the blood draining from her face in horror.

"Shit," she exhales, the heels of her hands coming up to her temples, "Shit, shit, shit! Henry! Henry, where are you?!"

-/-

Emma nearly tears the apartment apart searching for him, but it's no use. He snuck out, apparently so upset at the prospect of leaving he'd rather run off somewhere else. It's not going to work out for him, of course. They're still leaving as soon as she manages to find him. He isn't the only one angry, now.

The fact that he's even doing this is all the more reason they need to get the fuck out of here. Hopefully nothing will happen to him in the meantime.

Emma pulls out her phone, shaking with panic. She intends to just shove it in her pocket before she looks around the block (Henry couldn't have gotten that far), but a sight on the display stops her.

6 missed calls from Killian.

Her phone was on silent as she packed. Emma frowns, pressing the button to call him back. Maybe he can help her figure out where the hell Henry is.

He answers quickly for it being as early as it is. "Swan?"

"Henry's missing," Emma says quickly, borderline hysteria making her barely intelligible, "he just left in the middle of the night, I don't know where he -"

"I have him, he's alright." Killian's reassures her and she could cry with unadulterated relief. "I'll admit I was surprised when he turned up on my doorstep at four in the morning, but after you didn't answer my calls I decided that he could wait on my couch until you woke up. The boy was saying how he didn't want to leave this town and all of his family and… me - would you know anything about that?"

Emma groans, putting her head to her forehead. Killian only lives five minutes from her and Henry has been over there before, for dinner and whatever else Killian offered. It makes sense that her son would choose to hide out there. She's so relieved she almost aches with the feeling, but she still dreads the conversation she's likely going to have to have with Killian when she comes to pick Henry up. The talk she's going to have with her son is going to make things even tougher, hell, Henry might just refuse to leave his apartment. "Why didn't you bring him over here immediately?"

"I didn't know if you were awake or not in the early hours of the morning, Swan. I wasn't going to knock on your bloody door when you weren't answering your phone only to turn right back around. If you didn't respond when it got later in the day, I would have."

She frowns, unable to find much wrong with his logic. "I'll be there in five minutes."

"He's still sleeping. I won't wake him if you don't want me to."

Emma is going to miss him, a little bit. "Thank you, Killian."

He sighs, the sound echoing over the speaker and his voice warming. "Anytime, Swan."

A lot, she amends internally. She's going to miss him a lot.

-/-

Emma raps on his door, shortly after, mentally preparing herself for the exchange she's about to have with the two of them. It's not going to be pretty, she knows that much.

"Killian?" she calls, knocking more on the door. "Killian? Open up."

The only sounds that greet her are the chatter of his neighbors next door.

She's getting really sick of not getting a response from people, today. Her nerves are already shot.

"Killian, come the fuck on, this isn't funny."

Emma swears she'll give him five minutes to open the door before she breaks it down.

Her blood runs cold when she tries the handle first and finds it's already open.

The apartment is empty. There's not a sound in the place except the eerie noise of his wood floor creaking as she walks across it. She calls out both of their names, hoping for a response she doesn't find. There's a blanket and a pillow still on his couch, both of which look like they've been dragged out from Killian's bedroom in a rush to accommodate his last minute visitor.

He left his phone and his jacket behind, both of which are incredibly unlike him. There aren't any signs of a struggle - though there might be now that she's raided his apartment like a woman possessed - there's nothing. They're gone. Just like that, in five minutes they've vanished.

Emma almost gives up the effort when she finds a note posted on the table.

"You know where to find them."

Gold really wasn't fucking around, after all.

-/-

"David," Emma says as soon as he picks up the phone, running down the stairs of Killian's apartment complex to get back to her car. "You said you wanted to help me take down Gold. That we needed to be a team."

"Yeah, I did," David replies, sounding a little confused. His voice cracks with sleep. It's barely light outside and she didn't even preface the statement with a hello. "Why? While I'm at it, why did you tell Lancel-"

"There's no time for that, David. Gold has Killian and Henry," she explains curtly, gritting her teeth.

"Shit," David curses, a rarity for him. "We're going to need backup."

"My thoughts exactly."

-/-

Emma heads to Gold's shortly after. It may be exactly where he wants her, but maybe she can use that to her advantage. She isn't the type of person to wait around when a narcissitic, sociopathic asshole with a capacity for murder has the people she cares about.

When she strides through the door, her eyes narrow on the front desk where a familiar face is seated.

"Merlin," Emma says, resolutely. She props her elbows on the counter in front of him and meets his eyes, pleadingly. "I need your help."

"Elizab- Emma? I don't…" Merlin trails off, caught by surprise. He stares at her for a minute, as if deciding what he should do next, almost looking as if he's experiencing some sort of moral crisis. Eventually he grabs a pen and scrawls something on the page in front of him, hunching over it in a weird way. "I can't help you. I'm sorry. It's against policy."

She's about to curse - a response that would pale in comparsion to the messages she left Whale - when he holds his hand out.

"No hard feelings?" he asks, eyes firmly holding hers.

Emma takes his hand and shakes it, feeling the crumpled paper in her hand. "I understand, Merlin."

And she does.

She's reminded of Killian's words from what feels like so long ago, _"I have a friend on the inside, you could say."_

Mystery finally solved.

"You should probably leave the building," he adds, still staring at her in a way that would be discomforting if she didn't know that he was trying to communicate a weird secret message with her.

"I'll do that." she says.

-/-

Emma walks out to the car where the other three are huddled. Mulan, Lancelot, and David are camped out in the back of Mulan's SUV. They were on duty when David and Emma stormed into the station asking for help and they were immediately on board.

"Emma, why are you back already?" Mulan asks, confused, as Emma opens the door to the backseat. "I thought the plan was for us to wait five minutes, then follow you in."

She unfolds the paper Merlin slipped her instead of replying, furrowing her eyebrows as she sees the words.

"Cameras are everywhere. I'll try disabling them in a little bit to give you some time. Victor can help," Emma reads aloud.

"Who is that from?" David asks, confused.

"My friend on the inside," she grins, dimples flashing. "He must have an idea of what's going on. I think he has enough backbone for multiple people, thankfully."

"Friend on the inside?" Mulan repeats, not faring any better in understanding than David.

"I tried to go undercover - it's a long story." Emma sighs. "The real question is where the hell is Victor?"

David digs in her bag for a minute before finding her phone. "You got a text from Spineless Asshole a few minutes ago, saying to meet him at a parking garage a block from here. This may be a dumb question, but who is Spineless Asshole?"

"That would be Victor," Emma nods, not sounding ashamed in the least. She must have changed his contact name to that the day he bailed, but maybe he can earn the right to have it changed back. "I guess he came back when shit hit the fan and has been skulking around since. Merlin is a lot smarter than he lets on. The question is how the hell we're going to do this."

David opens his mouth to reply, but no sound comes out. Lancelot and Mulan aren't faring much better. They sit in contemplation for a moment.

"I have an idea," Emma says, finally. "it may be crazy and stupid and ridiculous, but I have an idea."

"We're listening, Sheriff." Lancelot says with a kind smile.

She gives him a look, but all he does is look proud of himself for the line.

-/-

This time when she enters Gold's office, it's a lot less victorious. Emma attempts to be silent as she opens the - this time unlocked, he must have planned for this - door. She doesn't get further than a step into the room when she hears Gold speaking.

"I confess," Gold starts, facing the window with his back to her and sounding deceptively unruffled. "I was only expecting to find Jones there when my men came, thinking I'd be able to take care of him and lure you here at the same time. Imagine my pleasant surprise when I found your son, as well."

"You would have gotten what you wanted," Emma points out bitterly, standing a few feet behind him. "I was packing to leave. You never would have had to see me again."

"Hm, I suppose I just have excellent timing. You see, Miss Swan, I can't get what I want until you're dead," Gold replies, turning around to face her. He seems extraordinarily pleased with himself. "It'd be bad for business, you see. I need you to be dead so you can tell everyone how wrong you were, how great this company is, how you killed yourself in remorse for what you've done in almost ruining all of their lives without saying a single word."

"Suicide seems to be a recurring theme with you." Emma retorts stiffly.

Gold shrugs. "A rather blameless act, I feel."

Emma scoffs derisively, feeling nothing but disgust for the man in front of her. "Blameless, huh? You're a murderer and you know that."

He shakes his head with a broad, chilling smile. "I give people what they want. A solution to one of humanity's biggest fears: death. The afterlife isn't reassuring enough, you see, but this...this is something better. Something you can hear, see now. Progress towards true immortality."

"That's what you want, isn't it?" she asks, tilting her head. "To be immortal?"

Gold evades the question. "Do you how exhausting it is? To conquer everything from yourself to the town you live in. Past a point, you'd like to feel at least a bit intellectually stimulated. At least you posed a challenge, the _sheriff_ , instead of Jones' pitiful excuse for playing my wife's scorned lover. There's a thrill to chasing people down, you see, conquering the unconquerable. Granted, you're much easier to squash than the concept of _death itself_ , but-"

Emma narrows her eyes, voice monotone. "So you did all this because you were bored with your own success? What a tragic backstory."

Gold shakes his head. "That's where you're wrong, dearie. I don't need tragedies to justify my actions. My actions don't need justifying. My hands have remained clean throughout all of this and the people of this town will bend to my every whim."

"You like that a lot, don't you?" she asks through gritted teeth. "Having that power over people: the grieving orphans and widows, the legislators, everyone who has ever or will ever lose someone."

"You're right, I do," he replies, nonplussed. "I had control over all of them. I now control mortality itself. And now, I have power over you. So what you're going to do is end your own miserable excuse for a life so you - with your last miserable, aching breath - can realize just how much power I hold. That would bring me great satisfaction. I hear you don't feel a thing after a few seconds."

Emma thinks of Sydney Boyd and feels even sicker than she did before.

"And if I don't?" she challenges, jutting her chin forward.

"Well, then, you can watch them die."

Gold points to the cameras by his desk.

Killian and Henry, unconscious, in one room. David, Lancelot, and Mulan waiting anxiously in another room. Conversations still ongoing with dead people and their loved ones in dozens of different rooms.

"I upgraded my security, just as you suggested. I had cameras before, of course, but not quite so immediately accessible to me, thanks to one of my assistants. He even upgraded them for me just today," Gold explains with a broad, crocodile grin. "And guards...well, I've quadrupled those. Paid quite well, too, well enough to fully defend the premises and execute my orders."

"You…"

"Wouldn't? Of course not as messily as I almost killed you, I learned my lesson. You can't trust the desperate to do the work of the disciplined. These guards are far superior, reccomended to me by my old friends in the military. Paid incredibly well."

"Is that how you took out Milah?"

He sneers. "Ah, yes. I suppose your boyfriend told you that, didn't he? Always popular with women who can't listen to a single order."

Gold's words lilt in the air.

Emma rolls her eyes. "So what, you killed her because you're a pathetic misogynist?"

"No," he replies. "I killed her because she left me. It all comes down to power, you see. I'm not happy when I lose it."

"I fail to see how that's any different," she rebuffs, crossing her arms.

That seems to piss him off even more, though he's trying to hide it. Calm, cool, and collected is essential to his persona, after all.

"We've talked for long enough," he says through a clenched jaw, "Let's get to the real _action_."

He opens one of the wide, obnoxious windows in his office and gestures to it like it's the door to a five star hotel suite.

"You're going to walk out of this window."

"And fall twenty stories until I splat on the pavement." she finishes, disbelieving.

"Like a small bug." he nods, with an expression she guesses is meant to convey happiness, "If you want your son and your boyfriend to live...along with your brother, the sheriff, and the deputy. Yes, I know they're here. I believe you summarized it quite well when you said that one of our greatest fears is losing the people you love. And you will lose every last one because of what you tried to take from me if you don't do what I want."

She narrows his eyes. "Because I trust you so much with their lives after I'm dead."

"I suppose you'll just have to take my word for it."

Emma takes a deep breath and peers out of the window.

It's a long fall. The cars in the parking lot nearby look they're the size of her thumb, from up here. And there's nothing to break the landing except for cement.

Gold just stands there, waiting patiently.

Emma closes her eyes, inhaling the air for a moment as if it's going to give her the courage to do what needs to be done next.

And in one swift movement, she lunges for him.

"What the he-"

He's so weak it's almost funny.

"Look at the cameras," she mutters, grabbing his cheeks with one hand and forcing him to look in their direction. "What looks real to you?"

The room that holds Killian and Henry's unconscious bodies, a blink later, holds neither of them. A few moments later, the room that holds Mulan, David, and Lancelot follows suit.

She has to give Victor credit for being able to do this all so quickly, to be honest. He was a little bit of a pain in the ass and made a few smarmy comments about her voicemails, but Merlin is evidently a better persuader than she is. Bonus points go to the rest of Storybrooke's police force and called in reinforcements to deal with Gold's security.

Gold looks horrified by the sight.

"Your security is still shit," Emma remarks, passively, letting go of him so he can fall to the floor. "I'll give you that those holograms look realistic enough, though. You created them, after all, and you were still fooled."

"How is this possible-"

At that, Gwen and Lancelot come through the door and proceed to read him his rights and arrest him. They offered to let her be the one to do the honors, but somehow it's even more satisfying from this standpoint.

"Simulation over, asshole," she tells him with a broad smile. "I'll be sure to tell your lawyer that you installed these fucking cameras yourself. Sounds like a two-party consent recording to me."

He only glares as the cops lead him out the door, apparently taking his fifth amendment rights very seriously. Gold will need to, with nothing else providing any sort of defense for him. Regina will have a hell of a time fabricating a cover story to keep him out of jail this time.

Emma eyes the cameras contemplatively when they leave, especially the one showing Gold's office and where she's currently standing. She presses down the button calling down the front desk.

"You get all that, Merlin?"

"All of it," he replies smoothly. "Everyone is safe. Robin and Marian just drove Killian and Henry to the hospital and Mulan and David are waiting down here wi-"

"Emma," David's voice comes over the line and she can hear Merlin sigh in the background in something like exasperation. "Emma, are you okay?"

"I'm better than Gold is right now," she shrugs, eyeing where he was just carried out.

David laughs, the sound over the speaker filling up the room.

-/-

Emma is nothing but vigilant over their bedsides over the next few hours, alternating her time between Killian and Henry. Apparently they'd only been knocked out with a strong sedative, but seeing them both unconscious and vulnerable in hospital beds doesn't exactly make her feel fantastic about the situation.

He's fine. He and Killian both are, the doctors assure her after she nearly goes ballistic - high strung off of taking in Gold and sheer worry for the two of them. Admitting them is just a precautionary measure to keep them overnight for observation.

When Henry stirs as she starts to fall asleep in the chair by his bed, though, the relief she feels is almost overbearing. Emma shoots up to greet him, wiping the sleep from her eyes before resting her hand on top of his.

"You got the bad guy?" is the first thing Henry asks when he wakes up in the hospital bed.

It's so in character for him that Emma wants to cry.

"Yeah, Henry," she answers, already a little teary. "We did. We got him. And he's going to stay in jail for a really long time."

"So we can stay?" he continues, eyes wide. "With Uncle David and Aunt Mary Margaret and Killian and Elsa and Lancelot and-"

"Yes," Emma grins, a few tears escaping. So sue her, it's been an emotional few days (few months, _few years_ ). "We can stay."

He visibly perks up at the news, beaming in response.

Henry is starting to deal with trauma so well she's a little afraid because of it.

Hopefully, this will be the last time he ever has to.

"I love you, kid," she murmurs, snaking her arms tightly around him. He's safe. He's not hurt. No one is going to take him from her. She repeats the words in her head like a mantra, nearly rocking him as she burrows her nose in his hair.

"I love you too, mom," he says into her shoulder, humming lightly.

And it's moments like these that make all of this shit worth it, to her.

-/-

Emma has another person in the hospital to visit, in the room right next to Henry's.

Killian seems much more peaceful when he's asleep, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. He looks younger, too. It's not a bad look for him. She's slept with him before (in more ways than one), sure, but she's never actually sat to watch him sleep.

He was usually the first to wake up.

A smile almost comes across her face at the memory. As much as their try for friendship since he came back from London meant they were probably closer and more comfortable with each other emotionally than they ever have been before, she misses before. Emma misses his arm having a comfortable weight around her waist, the crook in his neck she'd always burrow into when they slept, the way he'd do that stupid thing where he'd boop her nose with his finger, and the slow and soft smile he'd always offer her when she gradually and begrudgingly woke up to him pressing kisses to the side of her face.

Emma was a lot less skittish in the friendship phase of things, maybe, when it comes to her own sense of self-security and everything else that comes with it. But she misses the before phase, too, and she can't help but wonder if he does, too. Now that Gold is finally locked up and Regina's hands tied - as Lancelot reassured her earlier - maybe now they'll finally get the chance to talk. They need to have The Talk, the one she's dreaded so resolutely from the beginning of their almost-relationship.

"Wake up, sleeping beauty," Emma murmurs once she can tell Killian's eyes are starting to flicker open.

"Swan," Killian rasps. "What's going o-"

Killian stills mid-sentence, seeming to remember some of the day's earlier events.

He looks around the room, anxiously, nearly moving to leave the room and presumably search for her son himself. "Where's Henry? Is the lad alright? I opened the door when someone knocked because I thought it was you and-"

"Relax," she reassures him, hands on his arms in an attempt to keep him on the bed. "He's fine. Out like a light next door, but he doesn't have so much as a scratch on him. I just talked to him a few hours ago."

"Thank God," he exhales, still sitting up as his hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose. She drops her grip. "What the bloody hell happened?"

His hand falls to the bed and she waits a minute before grasping it. He twines his fingers in hers, as if the movement comes entirely naturally to him. They were always the hand holding type, even if they - she - spent most of their time together denying the feelings associated with such a gesture. His thumb traces the back of her hand and she stares at it, for a moment, exhaling before looking up to meet his eyes.

He softens in turn, repeating his question. "What happened, love?"

Emma smiles at him, an unsure gesture. "A lot. A lot happened."

She goes on to explain the events of the day - from deciding to leave town to arresting Gold. It's cathartic, for her to say and for him to hear.

He grins when she's done describing the look on Gold's face when he realizes this is a situation he can't worm his way out of, dimples flashing in a way that has become so familiar to her. "You did it, Swan. Saved the day."

Emma rolls her eyes and nudges him playfully. "You're so full of shit, you're lucky I l-"

She stops abruptly.

What do you even call it when you miss someone when they're gone and melt when they interact with your kid and - fuck - want to wake up next to them every day so you never have to miss them again?

Killian's hand squeezes hers a little tighter. "You what, Emma?"

She shuts her eyes, shaking her head back and forth. "We should talk. Actually talk, about everything."

He nods in understanding. "About us, I'm presuming."

"Yeah," she replies earnestly. "I think so."

He hums, a low sound in the back of his throat as her stares at her for a moment, eyes scanning over her face. Killian grasps her hand a little firmer in his, pulling their locked hands up so he can kiss the back of hers. "About how we feel for each other."

Emma can feel his breath on her hand and tugs her chair a little closer to his bedside. "I think we're a little overdue."

"I'll start, then," he says, lips twitching. His hand leaves hers to rest reverently on the side of her face, leaving her no other option than watching him say the words. "Emma Swan, you are one of the most strong-minded, beautiful, compassionate, and brave people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. You're strong, you're smart, and you're kinder than you'd give yourself credit for."

"Most people wouldn't exactly call me nice," she laughs, a little, doing her best to deflect.

He eyes her warmly, thumb running over the top of her cheek. "There it is again. You're kind, Swan. I knew that the minute you showed up on my doorstep. And I knew I cared for you before you fell asleep that night. I knew the next night that all I could ever want was for you to be happy."

"Trust me, I was plenty happy that night," she says with a tender grin, hand coming up to rest on his.

"As I recall," he agrees a smile lighting his features. "As was I, that night. But I even mean beyond that, love. I wanted you to be happy. You deserved that."

And just like that, the moment breaks and her smile fades.

"Wanted," she summarizes abruptly, eyes turning down and hand falling. "I see."

"Want," Killian corrects hotly, eyes boring into hers. He forces her to face him again, gently leading her chin up with his fingers. "I want you, Emma. All that you're willing to give. i want to make you happy and cared for and loved. I want to make the lad comfortable, too. I want all of you, Emma. The parts you're proud of and the parts you're not, because you've inspired me to be so much more than I was. To move past what happened, what was taken from me in ways that I never thought I'd be able to until I met you."

All she can do is gape at him for a minute, at loss for words.

"I realized most of that before I left for London, but the last thing I wanted to do was make you uncomfortable," he reveals roughly, averting his eyes and retracting his hand from her face. "I apologize if I've done so."

"No," Emma protests, a little too vehemently. "No, Killian. I'd never be able to do this without you, you know. Move on with what happened with Graham and Ingrid and everything else. Go after Gold. Be able to think of myself as someone who could do some good, after what happened. It's a two way street."

Killian's eyes meet hers again and she knows she has to say it, now, or she won't have the courage to do it later.

"I love you," she says softly, bumping her forehead with his and almost catching herself by surprise by saying the words. "I'm sorry it took me this long to realize it."

He grins, then, the sight almost blinding. His response is as natural as they come. "And I love you, Swan."

She leans down to kiss him as passionately as his heart rate monitors will allow.

"Does this mean I'm your boyfriend, no-"

"Shut up."

(It does.)

-/-

Gold always said he'd win the battle with the public. And maybe he's right. There's also a possibility that he could be wrong, though, and the police department has to do a fucking press conference regardless.

Here's hoping people start to believe proof when it's before their eyes.

(These hopes are likely too high.)

"We will now be taking questions," David announces, a little uncomfortably, sharing a look with Emma that says something like _'God, please save me from this hell'._

If they're in hell, they're in hell together.

"This is Sidney Glass from the Daily Mirror - may I ask what charges Robert Gold is being held on this time?"

Emma scowls. "This time? Sir, may I remind you that-"

David groans into his microphone. "The murder of Milah Gold and seven counts of attempted murder, Mr. Glass."

"Seven?" Glass raises his eyebrows, "May I ask what those seven entail of?"

"Myself, Sheriff Swan, Deputy Dulac, Deputy Fa, Henry Swan, Killian Jones," David lists them out on his fingers, looking confused for a moment at the six he's holding up. "Oh! And Sheriff Swan, the first time."

"The first time is referring to the previous charges that the department attempted to file against Robert Gold, correct?" another reporter calls.

"Yes," David and Emma answer simultaneously.

"What evidence led the department to this conclusion?" Glass asks, again, much to the annoyance of his fellow reporters.

"Oh, he explained it to me pretty candidly when he tried to convince me to waltz out his window and commit suicide," Emma explains bluntly. "How he tried and failed to kill me the first time, how he was going to kill everyone I loved unless I killed myself right then. Don't worry, it's all on the video we're going to send to you all."

Sidney sits down at that, but she can't resist rubbing it in just a little bit more.

"Wow, you know...Robert Gold, huh? _Really_ the guy that the Mirror called Storybrooke's Hero a few weeks ago on their front page, right Mr. Glass? I don't know how truthful the description of me as some conspiracy plotting succubus was, but maybe the video will help you decide on accuracy of that."

The crowd of media in front of them begin to look a little more anxious.

Good. Let them be.

David clears his throat. "Next question?"

"Ariel Finn from the Misthaven Journal, what's going to become of Gold Incorporated now that its CEO and founder is in custody?"

Emma answers this question, easily. "It will be shut down until further notice."

David goes on to explain in more detail. "We'll be partnering with our friends at Storybrooke General to deliver mental health care to its customers and the federal government will be sending a team from Health and Human Services to take a long, hard look at the facility and the potential risks and benefits its technology could pose. It will get the thorough investigation that Gold managed to evade when it opened."

"We realize this can't be easy to people who have become so used to seeing their loved ones' faces, but we hope that our mental health services can expand beyond a temporary fix for grief and onto a more lasting and healthy acceptance." Emma finishes.

"So, will we be seeing a continuation of the use of holograms of the deceased in Storybrooke?" Ariel presses further.

David and Emma share identical, unsure looks.

"Honestly, we don't know," David admits candidly.

Emma nods, "But if we do, it's not going to be another situation where one guy is sitting there adjusting the prices for it. If it's something Storybrooke decides to pursue, it should be pursued very carefully."

-/-

A familiar face stops her, once she starts to leave the press conference.

"Emma," Ashley Boyd greets, "it's good to see you again."

"Oh," Emma replies, a little startled, "good to see you too."

The next thing she knows, Ashley is hugging her. Emma almost jumps, but she settles for putting her hands on her back.

"You kept your promise," is all she says.

Emma melts, a little. "I tried to."

Another woman, this time one she doesn't recognize, is the next to address Emma.

"My brother...after my father passed, Gold took so much advantage of him. Thank you so much."

"I'm so sorry that this happened to your family," Emma says. "and we'll do everything we can to make sure it doesn't happen again."

A handful of people pass her, after that. Some glare, but some stop to thank her just as Ashley did.

It gives Emma a little bit of hope, a rare commodity after all the shit that's happened.

David steps in next to her, after a few minutes. "Seems like someone has made a difference for the better and the community is grateful to her. Imagine that."

Emma rolls her eyes. "Honestly I'm waiting for them to star-"

 _"YOU'RE GOING TO PAY FOR THIS, BITCH,"_ A random voice in the crowd calls.

 _Damn it_. She jinxed it that quickly.

Emma sighs. "Well, you can't win over everyone."

David cranes his neck to take a look at the perpetrator. "Marian has already got him."

"And that's all I need," Emma replies with a grin, "A good team at my back."

He grins. "I've always got your back, Emma."

"And I've got yours." she replies easily, threading her arm through his.

-/-

Mary Margaret and David insist on celebrating at their place, because of course they do. This is the couple that covered their house with so many streamers on New Years one year that Emma started finding pieces of them in her hair the next day.

They invite the whole gang - from Lancelot, Gwen, Marian, and Robin to Killian, Elsa, Anna, Kristoff, and Ingrid.

This time, Emma isn't as bothered by the invitation extended to Ingrid.

"Congratulations," Ingrid tells Emma as soon as she sees her, "It's not every day you take down the most powerful psychopath in town."

The corner of Emma's lips twitch upwards. "I had more than a little help."

"This is the part where you say that you still haven't taken me down, yet," Ingrid offers. The words are said more lightly than angrily, a current of understanding underneath them.

Emma just shakes her head with a laugh. "You're not the most powerful psychopath in town. I think that title goes to Regina. You're just holding a firm second."

It's more of a joke, this time. Judging by the expression on Ingrid's face, she seems to get that.

"I'm proud of you, you know that?" Ingrid tells her, putting her hand on Emma's shoulder. "I know I haven't been the best mother this past year, I know I've done things that were inexcusable, I know…"

"Mom," Emma replies, calling her a name she hasn't sincerely used in what feels like a lifetime. "I know. I think we're going to be okay."

Ingrid gives her a watery smile before leaning down to give her a fierce hug.

Emma squeezes her back, just as tightly.

Their relationship isn't perfect, she's not sure it will ever be. It's getting better, though, which is what counts.

-/-

She manages to extricate herself from an explanation of the town's happenings to an incredibly confused Kristoff and a concerned Anna. Elsa takes over the story, thankfully, somewhere around the part where she arrests Gold the first time while Henry excitedly fills in details.

As much as she loves the Blanchard-Nolan-Swan-Arendelles, Emma has to make an escape. It has nothing to do with the people in the loft and everything to do with her needing to breathe after all the shit that's happened over the past year.

Fresh air is perfect for that.

Emma is a little surprised, though, when she finds someone else already on the front steps of the apartment building.

"If it isn't the woman of the hour," Killian greets with a grin.

Emma shakes her head, sitting down beside him. "Please. You know this was about way more than just me. All of you-"

Killian gives her an overdramatic sigh, hooking his arm around her neck. "Just accept the bloody compliment."

She rolls her eyes. "I'll stop saying it when it stops being true."

"You're a bloody hero, Swan." Killian tells her, twining his fingers with hers over her shoulder. "It's as I've always thought."

"Yeah, well," she murmurs, meeting his eyes. "So are you."

He grins, at that, leaning in to kiss her. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Swan."

Emma smiles against his lips before reciprocating fully, twining her arms around his neck and sighing happily. This type of interaction she can deal with, right now. Soft, understanding, and comfortable company. It's as easy as breathing.

"We have a lot of work ahead of us," Emma groans when they break apart. "Between dealing with the fallout of Gold, trying Gold, trying Tolemac, dealing with the addicts that are probably tempted to tear our heads off about now, deciding what the hell to do with all of these simulations…"

"I reckon I'm supposed to chide you for focusing on all of these negatives, but I'm a bit preoccupied by your use of words like 'we' and 'our'." Killian replies with a grin. "My, my Swan. You really have changed."

Emma face falls. "What? Did I -"

"I'm glad for it," he adds quickly. "I'm unbelievably glad for it. And I want you to know that along every step of the way, there will be a 'we' and an 'our'. Not just between us, but with your entire family and friends behind you."

Her eyes water a little bit, at that.

"It's a little easier than being alone, I'll admit." Emma murmurs, her head falling to rest on Killian's shoulder.

"And you'll never have to do it alone again," Killian declares into her hair, his hand interlocking with hers. "I'll make sure of that."

Her mouth twitches. "And neither will you."

They sit in silence, for a moment, contemplating everything that's happened. The sunset makes a hell of a view, she has to admit. There's something cyclic about it. This chapter is over and another one begins.

(Hopefully, the next one is a little less depressing.)

"How do you think the town is going to deal with all this, once the dust has settled?" Killian asks, contemplatively. He seems to having the same thought process she is.

Emma exhales sharply. "I think people have spent so long living in the past, it's hard to adjust."

"Where do we go from here, then?"

"I think," Emma stills for a moment, deep in thought. "I think we start living in the present, wherever the hell that takes us."

Killian looks contemplative, nuzzling his face further into Emma's hair "The present, eh? Seems like a good place to be about now."

"Yeah," Emma murmurs, eyes fixed on the horizon. "It really does."


End file.
